Keep Me Closer
by Bookworm Kate
Summary: Foyle's War - Sequel to "Keep Me Close". The story begins near the end of the war when Andrew returns to Hastings. He finds things quite altered and learns what happened while he was away. Very much a Foyle/Sam 'ship
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the sequel to _Keep Me Close_ which focused on Sam and Andrew during the episode "Enemy Fire". This story goes back and forth in the time line, beginning in 1945 when Andrew returns. What has happened while he's been away? And what happened all those years ago?

Thanks to those of you who kindly read my previous Sam/Andrew story. For your patience, here is a story that is very much Sam/Foyle. As always, comments are appreciated.

* * *

Chapter 1

**May 1945**

The village hall was quickly becoming stuffy in the early May sunshine. The large room was abuzz with chatter, clinking tea cups, and the shuffling of leaflets. It would have been any normal Friday at an English village hall, had it not been for the long and uncertain faces of returned service men, the overzealous bunting, and perhaps the subject of the leaflets. Having already flung her green cardigan off, Samantha was feeling hot and wasn't at all sure she was being of much help.

She shifted in her chair, rubbing her back. Married Families Club, leaflets, and cups of tea didn't seem all that useful to these poor men. Though the war hadn't been declared officially over yet, men were straggling back slowly. They had returned to a place they no longer recognised, expected to take up again as if nothing had changed. Sam felt as worn out as they looked.

A warm voice across the room made her start and she looked up in to the soft eyes of Andrew Foyle. He came towards her, smiling shyly.

"Hallo, Sam."

She stared at him for a moment in relief. _He is here; he's alive!_ The blue RAF uniform he wore seemed to hang on him, as if he had lost weight. She noticed his once boyish faced was more lined and his dark hair had been recently cut. He looked as if he'd been ill, and his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You're back," she said finally with a smile. She didn't get up.

"I am. Arrived this afternoon."

"Back for good?"

"Yes, it's over for me."

"Have you seen your father?"

"Not yet. The desk sergeant … Cooke was it?… said he was in a meeting. He also said I'd find you here. So, here I am."

"Sergeant _Brooke_ I think you mean." She pushed a few leaflets around absently.

Sam finally said slightly stiffly, "Why have you come here? Interested in help with finding work or a suit that fits?"

Andrew gave a short laugh. "No, interested in you. I…um, wanted to speak to you."

Sam bit her lip, "Really? After not speaking with me for three years? After not returning any of my letters?"

He gave a barely audible sigh. "Please, Sam. Even though I didn't write back, I did receive most of the letters you and Dad sent."

"We thought you were captured, or injured, or even _dead_, Andrew," Sam said, her voice sharp, "no word for months on end. He's been worried _sick_ about you." She noticed her hand was trembling and she moved it to her lap, clutching at the soft material of her dress.

Andrew hung his head slightly, fiddling with the cap in his hands. "It's why I want to talk. I know my last letter to him was awful. I over reacted."

"That," Sam said, nearly spitting her words, "is an understatement."

"He let you read it?" Andrew groaned. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry."

He scrunched the hat tightly, "I'm sorry for a lot of things."

Sam tried to control her face and to stop the tears that were threatening to slip past her lids. She was always bursting into tears these days.

Andrew fidgeted uncomfortably, "Look, won't you at least consider speaking with me?"

She sighed. _It's all we've ever wanted to do, you silly, infuriating man._

"Andrew, of course I will. I'm finished here in about ten minutes. We'll take the car and have a chat, all right?"

He gave her a grateful smile, "Thanks, Sam."

She heaved herself out the chair behind the wooden table, one hand on her middle, beginning to tidy the leaflets. Andrew unconsciously ran his eyes over her; at once she noticed his face go from red to pale, a brief look of betrayal and pain crossing his features before he looked away.

"Don't look at me like that, please, Andrew." Her voice was imploring now.

"No, no, sorry. Just didn't expect…" He managed a brave, but wobbly, half smile, not meeting her eyes. "I'll wait outside, shall I?"

"I'll be ten minutes."

When she came outside not long after, she found him smoking furiously. His face was still in shock and his hair slightly ruffled, as if he'd run his hands through it many times. She placed a hand on his arm, glad to feel he seemed more whole underneath the uniform. _He's home unhurt. Oh, thank God._

"I am glad to see you, Andrew," she said warmly.

Andrew smiled weakly back at her and followed her without a word to the Wolseley.

"I'm going to miss the car when he retires," Sam said as they clambered in.

"Is Dad retiring? Huh…well, I suppose he's had enough after all this."

"I should say so."

"When does his meeting finish?"

"Not until this afternoon. Public Committee Meeting or some such. Sounds awfully dreary." Sam put the car into gear and pulled away.

"Should you really be driving?"

"Of course, why shouldn't I?"

"Well…" Andrew cleared his throat.

"You're as bad as he is. I'm not made of china, you know."

Andrew managed a proper smile then and said warmly, "Well, you're looking marvellous anyway."

She grinned at him, feeling pleased.

They drove to the beach and sat in the car watching the waves for a bit. Though the day was warm, here the wind howled and sent the water crashing up the pebbles. Finally Andrew spoke, heaving a hefty sigh before he did so.

"Has it really been three and half years since I was here last? I've missed it. Missed you and Dad. I'm sorry for what happened. Seems I'm always apologising to you, aren't I?"

She frowned at him, "I should be really cross with you. Putting him through all that when he least deserved it. Why didn't you write? To him at least?"

"I couldn't really believe it…what he'd written…about how he felt...I was angry. Whenever I started writing…well, the words were never right. Then I was shipped out to some God awful place overseas. They made me Squadron Leader and suddenly I was looking after spotty faced boys in the middle of nowhere. Mail often couldn't get through. Did try to send a few letters just before Christmas but the bloody ship got torpedoed. And to put the tin lid on it, I was in hospital for a month or more with sinusitis, which is why I've been sent home. No more flying for me."

"You all right now?"

"Yes, more or less."

"He'll be relieved to know you're home."

"Will he forgive me, do you think? I feel really awful for what happened. I know it was my fault."

She looked over at him, hearing the strain in his voice. Andrew had never been one to easily admit he was wrong, but this time he seemed to realise his mistakes. While she could forgive him because she knew Foyle would be so relieved, a part of her was ready to box his ears for putting his father through the hell of worrying.

"You're his son, Andrew."

"Yes, but I _was_ quite awful." He added, "And it's not just him I need to apologise to. I really am sorry, Sam. For everything."

"It's the War, isn't it?"

"No excuse for me being a complete BF."

"Quite. But, yes, I forgive you. As long as you make things up with your father."

He nodded, "I'll try."

"Good."

She smiled and relaxed her shoulders, glad that was over. Leaning across, she kissed his cheek. "I am so glad you are home safely, Andrew, and I know he will be too."

He gave her a crooked smile before looking at the waves beyond the pebble beach and sighing.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"What happened? Will you tell me the full story?"

"You really want to know?"

"I do, yes."

She sighed and tapped a finger against the wheel. "Well, I suppose it's only fair you know. Letters and telegrams don't quite cut it when it comes to these things."

"Do you mind terribly?" Andrew asked. "I expect I could demand to know and be childish, but I'd rather you told me with the knowledge that you wanted to."

"No, you should know, Andrew." Sam shook her head, "It's just I'm not sure where to start."

"At the beginning?" He gave her a half smile.

Returning the smile, she said, "Yes, jolly good idea."

She paused, thinking a moment. "Well, it really began with a teapot…"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I know 'War of Nerves' was in June '41, but for the purposes of my story time line, I've taken some liberties. And I've thrown in Captain Hammond because I couldn't help myself…he's just so wonderfully dashing…

* * *

Chapter 2

**November 1941**

DCS Christopher Foyle was just handing over some documents for Sergeant Rivers to put on file when they heard an almighty crash followed by rather prim curse. The two men exchanged glances before Foyle said, "I'll handle it, Sergeant."

"Very good, sir."

Foyle made his way towards the small kitchenette of Hastings Police Station, chewing his lip. It was the second clumsy occurrence of the day, and he was starting to feel suspicious. As he came into the doorway he saw Sam kneeling, picking up pieces of the brown teapot. It had shattered rather spectacularly, and bits were even strewn in the corridor. The tea was spreading quickly across the floor of the kitchenette, steam rising from the still hot water.

"You all right?"

She looked up quickly, "Yes, sir. I'm fine. It just slipped from my hand, I'm awfully sorry."

Her face was red and agitated and he put his head to one side contemplating her before coming closer.

"Here, let me help."

"You needn't, sir, I'm sure I can manage." She went a shade redder.

Foyle stepped carefully over the floor, fetching down a tea towel to mop up the puddle of tea. Tugging at the knees of his trousers he knelt across from her, slowly and carefully mopping up the liquid and wiping the bits of the teapot into neat piles.

"So," he began softly, "what's the matter?"

She gave him a cautious look, but he only raised an eyebrow, the question hanging.

Turning the teapot's handle in her hands she said, "I'm a bit distracted today, sir. It won't happen again. I'm sorry about the teapot, sir."

"I'm not worried about the teapot, Sam," Foyle said simply, giving her a look.

"Oh." She continued to fiddle with the handle. "Well, I know it's not really the place or the time, sir…but it's Andrew."

Foyle looked up sharply.

"I've had a letter from him…"

She paused, tossing the handle on to one of the piles.

"Is he, er…all right?" Foyle asked finally.

She looked up at him, "Why yes, of course, it's just…I don't want you to think badly of him. I'm sure it's for the best in the end."

"W-what's he done?" Foyle looked uncomfortable and began to chew his cheek. He had rather a good idea what his son had done.

Sam took a deep breath, looking around the small room as if she would find the words in amongst the tins and teacups.

"Well, he's…rather thrown me over. He has…found someone else."

Foyle rested his elbows on his knees, the sopping tea towel dripping slowly onto the floor. He saw her eyes bright with unshed tears as she picked up pieces of the shattered teapot. _Damn it all, Andrew. In a letter? I could throttle you…_

"I see," he said finally. "I didn't know."

"No, I don't suppose you should. He was very nice about it…very honest. It makes sense really, with him being away in Debden and me here. Anyway, now you know. I'm sorry, sir."

"Why are you sorry, Sam?" Foyle asked softly.

"You know, sir, that I cared very much for Andrew. I shouldn't like you to think he's a bad sort for throwing me over like this. It's just the War…" She looked at him earnestly, eyes still moist.

_Trust Sam to think of anyone but herself_, he thought ruefully, studying the young woman across from him.

Sam gave a large sniff, "Anyway, as I say, it's probably for the best."

Her face betrayed her however, and Foyle could see the hurt and, yes, _shame_ there. Not for the first time he wondered what had really happened the night Andrew hid away at Sam's, having gone absent without leave.

"War or no war, Sam, you deserve to be treated with consideration."

Foyle felt annoyed at his son, mostly because he had an inkling something like this would happen. The young man never could keep his eyes from the next best thing. There was always a girl involved somehow. Foyle gave a small sigh and stood, knees feeling numb. He wrung out the tea towel over the sink. That is was _this_ girl, however… _his_ driver under his care…well, that was another matter. He felt frustrated that Sam should be subjected to Andrew's carelessness. _Poor girl; doesn't say much for me either, a son of mine behaving this way._

He turned sharply as Sam gave a cry. She had cut two fingers on a sharp piece of the broken crockery. Putting them to her mouth she sucked at the blood, tears of frustration slipping down her cheek. Coming towards her, Foyle knelt beside her, pulling out his handkerchief.

"Here," he took her hand gently, and tightly bound the two fingers.

"Oh, but sir, your hanky," she cried in dismay as pricks of blood began to seep through.

"Never mind, it can stand it." He smiled at her softly, holding her hand to keep the hanky in place.

After a moment he said, "I didn't mean to pry into your personal life, Sam."

"I don't mind, sir. I'd rather you knew." She smiled shyly at him, eyes becoming clearer.

"And we're all right, aren't we?" Foyle asked unexpectedly.

"Absolutely, sir."

He was not sure why had had said it, but he was relieved by her answer. He unwrapped the hanky, gazing her her fingers.

"I think you'll be fine."

Foyle found her eyes, holding them for just a moment. He hoped she understood that he meant more than her fingers would be all right.

She smiled, "Thank you, sir." She took the hanky from his hand, their fingers touching. "I'll return it to you clean and good as new." She squeezed his fingers lightly.

He gave her an upside down smile, rising slowly. "I'll fetch a dustpan and brush."

"You've done enough, sir," she said firmly. "Leave the rest to me."

He nodded. "Be ready by half past?"

Foyle left her to it, wishing he could have stayed. Her smile had lost its spark and he could see how upset she was. _A ruddy letter. It's as if he never listened to a word I said…_ Foyle had been none too pleased when he had learned, some eight months before, that Andrew was walking out with Sam. He had given his son what he had hoped was a stern word or two about respecting Sam and treating her well. _And then he goes and does this. Of all the girls he had to take up with…my Sam._

Foyle brought himself up short, shaking his head. He shut his office door firmly, feeling suddenly uneasy. He was letting his emotions get the better of him. Sam was a special person to them all, a breath of fresh air in all their lives. Working day in and day out had brought them closer, and along with Milner, they were quite a team. But, he told himself, it gave him no right to think of her as _his Sam_.

He had been quite hurt to find out about Sam and Andrew; they had kept their relationship from him for months. He had even been rather angry at the way they had carried on behind his back when Andrew had gone missing. He knew Sam was loyal, but a part of him had taken for granted she would always be loyal to him foremost.

When she hadn't told him right away that she knew where Andrew was, Foyle had realised with an unpleasant jolt that perhaps he had not understood her as well as he thought. Something had been going on for awhile, he had seen that easily enough. It had just never occurred to him that it was _his_ son who was behind it. Foyle hadn't shown his annoyance however; he accepted the fact that it was only natural Andrew should win her over. But it rankled nonetheless.

Now, he felt…_relieved_? Well, perhaps a part of him did feel relieved. It was better that this split had happened now before she and Andrew had become more serious. The thought of having Sam in his life as Andrew's wife made him feel a jealousy he had never before encountered. It worried him, because one day she would walk out of the Police Station on the arm of another man, and that would be it.

Foyle cleared his throat loudly, shaking his head again. Thoughts like this were no good to anyone. He began to chew his lip heedlessly, thinking it was a shame the teapot had been the victim of Sam's distraction, as he could rather do with a strong cup.

* * *

They were at the docks a few days later, busy with a case of missing supplies. Sam dropped Foyle and Sergeant Milner off at the main office, and pulled to one side to wait. Not for the first time Sam thought back to the conversation with Foyle over the broken teapot. Foyle had been awfully nice about the whole thing with Andrew. The young pilot had only been away for about eight months, but he had hardly written and promises of meeting up were never fulfilled. He never could seem to get any leave.

At first, Sam had told herself that he was just busy, but after weeks with no word from him, she knew. She felt hurt and used. Andrew always had women on the go, but she had never considered for a moment that their relationship was so transient. She had hoped their evening together had changed things. Apparently not. It sat bitterly on her tongue, keeping her awake at night.

Sam wasn't altogether surprised when his letter had arrived. He hadn't written for over a month, despite her weekly letters. She didn't want things to be over, but she realised that perhaps it was for the best. He had been miserable in Debden, on his own away from her, he said in one of his letters. He missed flying and had already had enough of instructing cocky young pilots. He couldn't be expected to be up there in Debden without a girl by his side to keep him in line.

Sam had cried from the jealousy of the idea, but she knew Andrew better than he perhaps knew himself. He was the type of man who needed a girl by him. The type of young man who couldn't bear to be at a party by himself. And if presented with such a predicament, would be sure to find a suitable girl to keep him company in no time. It wasn't his fault. _It is just the War…_

She shook her head. _I'll find someone else…I'm bound to…_

Deep down however, Sam heard a little voice reminding her that Andrew had been special. He had brought a new part of her out; coaxed by charm and what she had believed to be love. Before he had left for Debden they had shared so much of themselves. Besides his father perhaps, Andrew knew more about her than any man and it was hard to let that go. She was inclined to feel unsure and unsteady. Her duty and her loyalty to Foyle fortunately wouldn't allow her to feel unsteady for long, and she sensed he was keeping an extra special eye on her.

Ever since she had told Foyle of Andrew's letter, she had noticed him more. He would suddenly turn up in places she hadn't expected him to be, like the Records room. Plus, he had taken her to dinner the previous night on the way home. _Only fish and chips, but still._ Sam was beginning to suspect he was taking pity on her, and she didn't like it. She didn't want pity. She wanted to get on with her work and be useful, and to forget bloody Andrew Foyle.

She tapped the steering wheel absently, staring out at the dock yards beyond the main office building. She jumped when Sergeant Paul Milner opened the door and slid into the back seat. His arm was still in a sling, bandaged up after being shot by their prime suspect. Sergeant Milner and his team had been busy for over a month trying to find out who was behind the supplies racket. They knew who it was now, but he had managed to escape, injuring Milner in the process.

The two policeman had come back to the docks today to see if they could find out more about the man. Sam thought how it had been strange not to have Milner at the station everyday. He and his team had been undercover, which Sam thought was jolly exciting. She had felt his absence in the last few weeks, however, having gotten used to hanging about his office or doing his filing.

"You all right? How's the arm?"

"Yes, it's fine. Mr Foyle has gone to have a look around with the owners. He said to wait here."

"All right. I hope he isn't ages, I'm starving."

Milner grinned at her, and she shifted in her seat to look around at him. "Has he been acting strange lately?"

"Has he? I hadn't noticed."

"No, perhaps not." Sam tapped the wheel again.

"Something on your mind, Sam?" Milner asked carefully.

"Oh, well, it's just this thing with Andrew." She had told Milner everything as soon as he'd come back to the station; he was like the older brother she'd never had, and a policeman to boot, so even better. Sam sometimes wished she'd come from a family of policeman rather than vicars. It would have been much more exciting growing up…

"I think Mr Foyle is taking pity on me, he seems to be always at my elbow."

"I wouldn't think Mr Foyle pities anyone, Sam," began Milner. "I rather think it has more to do with making sure you're all right. He probably feels responsible."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Andrew is his son."

"Who is an adult and makes his own decisions."

"I shouldn't take it the wrong way, Sam," Milner said easily, "I'm sure he is only trying to help as best he knows."

Sam sighed and sat back, "Yes, you're right of course, Paul. I'm just over thinking it."

"Look, why don't we go out to the pictures? Take your mind off things?"

"Oh, yes, that's a nice idea."

Milner began to say something about a new film showing in Hastings but he was cut off by the sound of an air raid siren. It echoed strangely inside the dock yards, bouncing off steel hulls and buildings.

"Gracious," Sam said, sitting up, "is it really Jerry?"

"Let's not wait to find out," Milner said, getting out. "Come on, let's find the shelter, Sam. Quick now."

He winced as his arm knocked the side of the door. Sam came quickly around the car to help him.

"Look, everyone is heading this way."

He took her hand with his free one, holding tightly as they joined the queues that were forming. They went quickly with the crowd hurrying into the nearest shelter. Sam gave a slight shudder as she heard the high pitched whistling begin. _Bombers!_

She turned to Milner, a worried look on her face, "What about Mr Foyle?"

"He'll be fine, Sam. He's with the owners."

Craning her neck over the hurrying crowd, she tried to spot Foyle, but couldn't see him through the sea of people. A coldness seemed to creep up on her. The warden shovelled them into the shelter, counting them as they went in.

Sam insisted Milner sit down in her place on the bench. Large beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and Sam wasn't sure if it was his sore arm or his prosthetic leg that was bothering him. She had remembered their bags and she fished out the water canteen, handing it to him.

"Thanks, Sam," Milner panted, wincing as he tried to get comfortable.

She looked around the cramped shelter, feeling rather like a sardine. "Hope it isn't a long raid."

"We'll be all right," Milner said comfortingly. He took her free hand, "I'm here."

"I hope Mr Foyle is safe," Sam said, not hearing him, looking out across the heads to make sure she hadn't missed Foyle.

Milner caught her eye and she noticed his eyes had narrowed into a knowing and rather impatient look. She felt herself blush. He dropped her hand as she turned away. It was as if he thought she was a silly young mare sometimes and she hated that. She didn't like being treated like the younger, mindless sister. She had only meant that she was worried about their boss' safety. Milner was always a little impatient with her admiration of Foyle. She decided to ignore him for a bit as retribution.

_It's as if Paul thinks I'm hero worshipping him…it's not like that at all…_Sam stopped, wondering at herself. What was it like? Her stomach gave an unpleasant jolt, dropping in astonishment. A fluttering idea had crossed her mind, and she quashed it uneasily. _It's not like that at all…is it?_

The raid was fairly short, only shaking their shelter slightly. After nearly forty minutes of standing and waiting, Sam said grumpily, "What a thing to do at lunchtime."

She was feeling very fed up and cramped in the damp, cold shelter. They heard two explosions above, and then it was silent for a good while. The bombers must have moved on.

"Look, they've opened up now," said Milner, nodding towards the door.

They walked back outside with the crowd, many people dispersing and going back to their work stations. Through the sea of blue overalled people, Sam saw a jauntily set black trilby, and she pushed towards it. _There he is._

"Mr Foyle," she called out, "sir!"

He turned and smiled; it reached his eyes and they twinkled back warmly at her. He leaned towards her, "You all right, then? Milner with you?"

"All present and correct, sir. Starving, but in once piece."

He smiled again. "Right, we'll be on our way soon. Bomb has gone through a building just up here…"

"Here's the bomb squad now, sir" Sam said, pointing as a large truck pushed through the gathering crowd.

A rather dashing young man jumped down from the truck as it stopped and came striding over with purpose and authority. He came up to them saying, "Who is in charge here? These people need to be moved back at least a hundred yards."

Sam saw one of the owners frown fiercely, disliking the younger man's tone.

"And who are you?"

"Captain Hammond. Now, will you kindly move everyone back." He moved towards the building.

"But you aren't going in there, are you?" The owners asked.

"Well, seeing there's an unexploded bomb in there, yes. And if you would do as I ask, we can all be home for teatime."

Sam stifled a giggle as she followed Foyle and Milner back to the car. She rather liked the young captain's clipped manner and self assuredness.

"Did you find out anything, sir?" Milner asked.

"M-may have done."

Foyle caught Sam's eye and twitched his lips into a smile. "Come on; lunch first."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

**February 1942**

The winter had dragged on, long, and cold, full of rumbles of hunger and the ever growing presence of war. They had been busy in Hastings, and Sam was glad of her work. It took her mind off things and Foyle was allowing her to become more involved. She'd told her family this at Christmas, grinning ear to ear, much to her father's disapproval.

"It isn't suitable, mucking about crime scenes, Samantha. I don't like it." He'd said, running a finger underneath his dog collar. "I pray that God will bring you to your senses and back home where it is safe."

Fortunately, Uncle Aubrey and her mother had been on Sam's side and stood up for her.

Uncle Aubrey had even said, "Oh come on, Iain, our Sam has got brains enough. Besides, her Mr Foyle will keep her out of any real danger."

"He isn't _my_ Mr Foyle," Sam had protested, only later realising she rather liked the sound of it.

After Christmas, and with the Americans now involved in the war, things seemed to be looking up. Sam was excited when the American troops had rolled into Hastings. Expecting them to be just like actors in the films, she was, however, rather disappointed. Instead of Clark Gables or Humphrey Bogarts they all looked about eighteen — awkward young lads in their unfamiliar uniforms. They all kept grinning as if it were a big game. Didn't they know what they were up against?

Sam found their presence slightly overwhelming, and she was glad they were based just outside of Hastings, about five miles to the north, so she didn't run into them too often. Duty was forever calling, and luckily this time it took her, Foyle, and the Wolseley in the other direction.

Now, cycling through Hastings, Sam was on her way to a dance they were putting on for the locals. It was too late, and far too cold to turn around now. She hadn't intended to come to the dance the Americans were putting on at all, as one GI, Joe Farnetti, had been a bit too fresh with her for her taste.

Farnetti had driven his captain in to see DCS Foyle at the station, and without even introducing himself began to chat her up. It was as if these young American men had never heard 'no' before. She hadn't spoken properly with any Americans before, and if he was anything to go by, she didn't want to. They said the most peculiar things. At the prospect of plenty of food however, and the promised bars of chocolate, she had given in. Perhaps one dance with Farnetti wouldn't hurt…if the reward for putting up with his ego was chocolate, then it might be worth it.

It was with surprise that she saw Foyle getting out of a taxi outside the old school. She called out to him as she locked her bicycle, and was pleased to see him break into a wide smile.

"I didn't expect to see you here, sir." She tossed her hair, smiling back at him.

"Well, you know, Anglo-American relations and so on." He grinned. "You?"

"I wasn't going to come, but I changed my mind." She grinned back, "They've got such lovely food!"

They walked up the steps. With a small laugh, Foyle nodded, "Come on then."

He placed a hand on the small of her back, ushering her in through the wide door. Inside, he helped her with taking off her coat. She wore a lovely, dark maroon dress with a red flower pinned on one side, and she had matched her lipstick perfectly to its colour. Her light hair was flowing magnificently around her shoulders, making her look quite different from her usual uniformed self.

Foyle gave her an appreciative look. Sam smiled, enjoying the feel of being admired, and as always when Foyle was behind the glance, felt decidedly grown up. She seemed to blossom under his gaze. He was dressed in a sharply pressed blue suit. As he turned from hanging their coats he ran a hand through his hair, though the curls of his thinning hair wouldn't be tamed. She could smell his aftershave and it sent an unexpected shiver through her middle.

He put his hand on her back again, his fingers pressing lightly to lead her down the long corridor to where they could hear music playing. She relished his touch, as it was a rare occurrence. It felt comforting at this moment, and Sam saw him as an ally in this hotbed of Americans.

Leaning in conspiratorially, she said, "I hope you'll keep these GIs at bay. They're an awfully fresh lot."

"You can't expect me to believe you don't want to dance with these fine young men?" Foyle gave her an amused look.

Sam looked down the corridor towards the hall where fast paced music was echoing, face darkening, "Not particularly."

Foyle raised an eyebrow. "So, n-not all Clark Gable's then?"

"No, worst luck."

Foyle didn't answer, as just then the American Captain came towards them.

"Mr Foyle, glad you could make it." The two men shook hands.

Captain Kieffer looked at Sam, giving a soft whistle, "And glad you brought your pretty driver. Welcome ma'am." He shook her hand as well, grinning toothily. "Make yourselves at home. Have a drink!"

Sam gave Foyle a look as if to say, _"See what I mean?"_

He smiled back, lips twitching into soft laughter.

Inside the hall the dance was well under way and Sam spied Sergeant Milner near the drinks table.

"Hallo, Paul," she said.

Leaning over he gave her a kiss on her cheek in greeting. "Didn't expect you here. Thought you didn't approve of the Americans."

"I don't. Not the fresh ones, anyway."

"Shall I glare at any that come near you?" Milner asked.

Sam gave him a push, "Don't be silly."

Handing her a drink, Foyle said, "Well, they are a long way from home, in a strange country, fighting a war they thought had nothing to do with them. Is it any wonder? We must just try to get on."

"Yes, sir." She paused to take in the large table of food, piled high with assorted platters. "But I do approve of their food…" she wandered off, gazing at the spread in delight.

When she had gone back for a second plateful sometime later, Joe Farnetti, the GI she'd met a few days before, accosted her.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said, eyeing her up and down with a grin.

She frowned, "Well, here I am."

"Does it mean you'll dance with me?"

"I say, can't a girl have a chance to finish eating? And I don't see why I should."

Farnetti held up his hands in mock surrender, "We've got time. Finish your meal. Why shouldn't you dance with me? The old man won't mind. C'mon, you can't come to a dance and _not_ dance."

Sam gave him an annoyed look. "If you are speaking of Mr Foyle, he's not old. I'm sure he wouldn't mind, but the fact is, I do."

With that she walked away, returning to her seat at a small table on the edge of the dance floor. The food suddenly didn't seem so appetising, and she put the plate to one side. It was meant to be a fun evening to get to know the new arrivals and make them welcome, but she wasn't enjoying it much.

She didn't _like_ putting the young American off, but his tenacity was beginning to wear. Why should she dance with him? The fact was, she didn't really feel much like meeting more young men who were about to go off to war. She sighed heavily and looked about the room. Foyle and Milner were talking with Captain Kieffer, watching the dancers. Sam wasn't even sure what they were dancing — it looked rather awful. _Jitterbug or something, wasn't it? _

Her glance was drawn again to Foyle who was listening patiently to Captain Kieffer. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle and she wondered if the American had said something funny. _Yes, he must have_: Foyle's lips were turning down into a smirking smile. Without realising, she smiled too, putting up her hand to cup her cheek.

_He really is magnificent isn't he?_ Foyle had been such a brick through everything; being bombed, always standing up for her, including her and listening to her ideas, being understanding about Andrew…It had started off as just a job, driving him here and there, but now it was something more she couldn't explain. Going to pick him up first thing each morning filled her with happiness and satisfaction. She may not be making bullets or harrowing fields, but they were doing their bit for the War here and she felt glad to be a part of it.

It seemed strange on days they weren't working not to be beside him — not to feel his eyes on her when she spoke or to feel his hand just behind her shoulder on the front bench of the Wolseley. She loved it when he did that because he would turn towards her, giving her his full attention. He never made her feel small or silly. Unlike most men she seemed to meet these days, he saw further than her uniform and bright smile.

Sam sighed again, _no, he's not like most men at all._ Her stomach tightened as a familiar flit of a thought skipped across her mind, taunting and daring her to let it catch hold.

Sam shook her head and with a last glance at the food, finally admitted to herself that perhaps she wasn't in the mood to be at a dance. She took up her glass and slipped quietly out into the cool corridor, glad to get away from the music and the prying eyes of the GIs. There was a man she wouldn't mind dancing with, but he would never ask her. Leaning her head against the wall she sighed again, feeling a bit miserable.

Dancing always reminded her of Andrew, anyway. She had accepted that things were over between them naturally, but she did miss him. They had been good friends if anything, and he had been such fun to be with. It had been over three months since his final letter, and if truth be told she missed writing to someone other than her parents. She'd always put the thoughts she wouldn't dare send to the vicarage on paper for Andrew, knowing it would make him laugh.

A voice made her jump. Sam turned to see Foyle standing in the soft light from the hall. _How did he know I was here?_ The light caught the small curls of his hair, and she saw he had loosened his tie. Her stomach fluttered. He looked positively debonair as he came towards her, hands in his pockets. _What was in the punch?  
_  
"You all right, Sam?"

"Yes…yes, sorry, I just wanted some air."

"The GIs bothering you?"

"Nothing I can't handle." She smiled softly, "I'm just not…interested, I suppose. Perhaps I shouldn't have come."

"Well…_I'm_ glad you did." He smiled at her.

She returned the smile and took a sip from her glass. He stood near her, chewing his lip a moment before saying, "You thinking about Andrew?"

She looked at him sharply, _how does he do it?_

"I was in fact, sir. He was such a good dancer. Though I expect even his skills would be put to the test with this new American dance."

Foyle laughed softly.

"But I wasn't thinking about him like…well, I miss him, but not because I…"

Foyle came to her aid, "Yes, I miss him too. You know how he is…never writes. I do worry about him."

"I do too. He was my friend, Mr Foyle, and I do pray for his safety."

"Thank you." Foyle came a step closer, "I would say he doesn't deserve your kindness after his behaviour, but I can't say I'm not glad. I expect he needs all the help he can get at times like these."

"Forgive and forget."

"Indeed."

She smiled at him warmly.

He leaned forward, shuffling his feet slightly, hands still in his pockets. "Sam, I know…"

He broke off as Milner and Kieffer came down the corridor at speed.

"Mr Foyle!" Milner called sharply, worry in his voice, "A young lady has been found downstairs. She's dead."

"You've gotta do something, Mr Foyle," said Kieffer, looking at him wildly.

Foyle nodded, "Show me." He glanced back at Sam and motioned to her. "Best wait in the hall with the others."

He went off with Milner, a frown creasing his forehead. Sam watched him walk away, wondering what it was he had been about to say. "Never a moment's peace is there?" she thought ruefully. "Even on a night off he's dragged into something. Poor girl, I wonder who it was…the last thing the Americans need is this."

She was glad Foyle had found her and that they had talked about Andrew. She wondered how he had guessed she was thinking of him? Perhaps he had been missing his son, seeing all the young Americans having a good time. It was nice to hear Foyle speak of him. She wouldn't mind doing it more often. Despite their history, she still thought of Andrew, especially as she knew how much Foyle worried. She went back into the brightly lit hall, feeling that perhaps the evening hadn't been wasted after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**May 1945**

A gull shrieked nearby causing Sam to break her gaze on the rolling waves.

"But I don't understand," Andrew said, frowning. "You hadn't taken up at this point?"

"No, it was…well, I'm not sure how to describe it. We were getting closer without realising it. The War and the uncertainties of the job kept throwing us together, if that makes sense."

"I suppose it does, yes." Andrew paused, "I know I keep on saying I'm sorry, and you probably don't believe me, but I did feel bad about breaking it off in a letter. I don't think I wouldn't have been able to do it if I had seen you."

"Oh?"

"I would have realised I was making a mistake." He looked at her, catching her eye. He said softly, "You made me a better man. I really did care for you, Sam…"

"Oh, Andrew," Sam sighed, "it wasn't meant to be."

"I know that now, but I didn't then. That's why my letter to Dad was so…well, you know."

Sam rolled her eyes.

"So…when did you…_know_?" Andrew blushed suddenly. "I say, Sam, I shouldn't be asking you all this."

She grinned, "I don't mind. He's my favourite subject. Besides, it's better you know what really happened. Then you'll know he's blameless."

Eyeing him keenly she added, "It was a slow burning thing, unlike what you believed."

His blush deepened. "I really was awful in my letter. I wish you hadn't read it."

"Well, I did have to pry it off him."

"Anyway," said Andrew, clearing his throat, "when did you…know you, er…?"

Sam thought a moment. "I suppose when I was ill. It would have been that summer after the Americans arrived."

"I didn't know you were ill, Sam."

She paused, "Yes, I was. It was very serious, Andrew. I very nearly died and I think that threw things into perspective a bit."

Andrew looked at her with concern, "Sam, I never knew."

"It was anthrax. I wouldn't have made it without your father."

Andrew slumped back, looking quite stunned. "And here I thought I was the only one in danger. I never imagined…"

"No, of course not." Sam looked over at him, "He bullied the medicine from the scientists who caused the trouble in the first place. I only found this out much later of course. He was with me every day at the hospital. Sat by my bed; fetched and carried for me, everything."

"Dad?"

"Yes, he made a wonderful nurse."

She grinned at him, eyes twinkling. She remembered very little of the struggle of recovery, but recalled Foyle's untiring selflessness perfectly…

* * *

True to form, Foyle had been there when she most needed someone. When she was first admitted to hospital he had come to see her, eyes full of fear and worry. The doctor had not been at all encouraging. Foyle did his best to hide the slow and sinking shock of what the doctor had said from his face, but Sam had seen it all too clearly.

Watching him walk away with fear in his eyes was overwhelming, and a small voice in the back her mind said insistently, _now he will never know._ Seeing the breadth of his concern had convinced her fever addled mind that she was going to die. Foyle was the only thing she thought of as she slipped into a feverish sleep.

The following day he returned. With her fever still raging, he sat by her all night, cradling her hand in his. When her fever broke in the early hours of the morning, she awoke to see him dozing upright in his chair, hand still clasping hers. Falling back to sleep in contentment, it wasn't until the nurse came later in the morning she noticed he was gone.

"Where is he, Nurse?"

"I sent him home. He wasn't even supposed to be here, but he was so worried for you. You're very lucky, miss, to have one who cares for you so. Took a lot to shift him this morning, I can tell you."

Sam cried then, knowing finally what it was she truly felt, and yet also knowing it would never come to be. The nurse had nearly forbidden him to come back if she was going to keep bursting into tears. But he had come back. Everyday in fact, and she had allowed herself to hope.

When Sergeant Milner came to visit her on her fourth day in hospital, bringing a small bunch of flowers, she wanted to discuss it. They had always talked about everything, and if anyone would understand, she thought he would.

"Paul, I want to tell you something."

"Just rest, Sam. We can talk later." He sat down on the chair by her bed, wincing as he did so, his sore leg above the prosthetic giving him pain. "I want to ask you something as well, but look, it can wait."

"All right."

"Brookie says hello. He wanted to come himself but he's on duty."

Sam nodded. "How are you all at the station?"

"Fine. Missing you."

"I hope I'll back soon."

He surprised her by taking her hand. "I hope so too. It isn't quite the same." He added, "You gave us a right scare. It's made me aware that…"

"What?"

He hesitated and then shrugged, "It can wait. Just focus on getting better, and then you'll be back before you know it."

"I will."

He squeezed her hand and let go as a keen eyed nurse went past briskly.

"They looking after you well here? The doctor says you are on the mend."

Sam nodded distractedly before saying softly, "Look, I need to tell you something. I can't keep it in any more, Paul."

"All right." His face brightened. "Just don't tire yourself out with talking."

She caught his eye. "I have been laying here thinking and thinking, and it feels such a weight on my shoulders. It's a sort of crossroad I suppose — I've got to choose which way I turn. But, you see, what if I had died and he never knew how much I cared?"

Milner went pale, "_He_?"

"It's made me realise…I think…I think I'm in love with him. With Mr Foyle."

Her voice was more sure than her words, and Milner rocked back in his chair as if Sam had thrown a book at him. Looking anywhere but at her, he frowned fiercely.

In a tight voice he said, "But, Sam…how…? You can't…_love him_… surely?"

He suddenly looked a bit ill. "You're just tired, that's it. It's been overwhelming for you and your thoughts are getting the better of you."

She looked at him, feeling hurt. "That's not it at all. I thought _you_ would understand."

Milner still looked half shocked, "But…you mustn't think he will concede to return your feelings? He's our boss, you know he would never…"

"No, I know, but I just had to tell someone. I'm not asking you to give me encouragement."

"Well," he huffed, "I certainly won't do that." Milner shook his head. "What did you expect me to say, Sam? _Mr Foyle_ for God's sake…"

Sam began to cry silently, "I know it's hopeless, _you_ don't have to tell me."

Milner leaned over, looking suddenly guilty, "Sam, I'm sorry. Look, you must focus on getting better. That's what is important. Getting better, and coming back to work, and then going on from there. You don't have to decide about anything just now."

She nodded, unable to find her voice. The weight of her emotions had moved into the pit of her stomach, dragging her down. She felt wretched, Milner's words still smarting.

"What's all this then?" Nurse asked, bustling over and glaring at Milner. "Right, that's enough of that. You can go now, sir. My patient needs rest; not upsetting."

She chivvied him out severely, hardly allowing him a "goodbye." Returning, Nurse fussed over Sam's blankets, and handed her a handkerchief. She was the same nurse who had let Foyle stay with her.

"Lover's quarrel, my dear? Well, never mind, you worry about getting better, and let those two men fight it out. You needn't worry yourself any more."

Sam stopped crying and looked at her in utter surprise. "What _do_ you mean, Nurse?"

"Well, the two gentleman callers, of course. Now, rest and try to get some sleep."

"But…"

"No more talking now; lie back, that's it."

With that, Nurse was off, checking on her other patients, leaving Sam to stare at the foot of her bed in surprise. _Is Paul…jealous? Of Mr Foyle? Have I been so blind?_ Her bewilderment took her into a fitful sleep, and Nurse was forced to forbid visitors for a day, saying with severity to Foyle the next morning, "I'll not have you gentlemen upsetting her any further. If you want to help her, let her rest."

Foyle had eventually been allowed back in. He was very dutiful and a hit with the nurses. He came every day for an hour or more to talk with her and sometimes read. A few days before she was expected to leave hospital, though still quite weak, Sam was feeling more herself. Nurse had freshened her up, brushed back her a hair a bit, and kept smiling rather wickedly.

"What's going on, Nurse?"

"You've got a visitor. And we don't want to let the side down." She winked, much to Sam's amazement.

"You make me feel like it's the King with all this fussing, Nurse. Who is it? It isn't visiting hours?"

"Your nice Mr Foyle." Nurse winked again. "Now, I'll go to make some tea for you and leave you two to talk."

Sam went red. "I say, Nurse, you _are_ an old softy."

Nurse smiled, "Well, as long you don't tell Matron."

She bustled off and Sam soon heard the squeak of shoes across the polished floor. Foyle came closer, smiling down at her.

"How are you feeling today?"

"All right. Still ache all over, but I'm sleeping better."

"Good." Foyle sat down in the chair beside her bed, tugging at the knees of his trousers before crossing his legs. He hung his hat on the end of her bed.

"Nurse is making us tea. I think she likes you."

Foyle twitched his lip, "When I'm not causing havoc to her patient, perhaps."

Sam went red again. She began to fiddle with the end of her sleeve. "How are things at the station?"

"M-much the same. Quieter without you of course."

"You haven't gotten a new driver?"

"No, Sergeant Brooke fills in most days."

Sam held her breath a moment, "I've been thinking…"

"What, again?" Foyle twitched his lips into a smile, enjoying teasing her.

"Yes, I know." She smiled at him before saying hesitantly, "Would you say I was…sort of a useful person to have on the team, sir? It's just…I…" she couldn't seem to find her words and she faltered.

Foyle eyed her carefully before saying slowly, "I would say you are an _invaluable_ part of the team."

Sam smiled, feeling pleased, "Would you really?"

"Absolutely. Can't go anywhere without you, can I?

She laughed softly. "Jolly good."

"What's brought this on then?"

"I don't know, sir. You might have found…someone…better…" She shrugged.

"I don't think I _could_…f-find someone better."

Sam looked up, meeting his eyes. He met her gaze squarely, something determined sitting behind the cool blue of his eyes . She saw the warmth there and felt it wash over her, making her tingle.

"Do you mean it?" she whispered.

Foyle leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "I do."

Nurse came over with a full tray of tea things. "How are we today?" she asked brightly.

Sam watched Foyle, almost staring at him. Her face was caught between disbelief and a smile.

"Very well, thank you, Nurse," Foyle said, standing and offering to take the tray from her.

"I'll let you have some tea, but then you must be off. Miss Stewart needs more rest before you can whisk her away back to work. And don't tire her out with too much talking."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

He watched her bustle away with some amusement before turning back to Sam and raising an eyebrow. His look said that in fact he _would_ dream of it, and that whisking her away was the one thing he couldn't wait to do. She grinned at him as he handed her a cup of steaming tea.

"Your parents were here a few days ago?"

"Yes, they couldn't stay for long of course. Father's parish needs him. I'm glad they came down though. Mummy would have stayed if she could, but I told her I was being looked after."

She smiled at him. "Mummy is very grateful to you."

"Yes, I did see them. I'm just glad I can help put their minds at rest."

"I'm grateful too."

Foyle gave her a half smile, "All part of the service."

They talked a bit more about trivial things, Foyle steering the conversation away from anything too serious. Seeing she was tiring, he put down his empty cup. "Now, before I'm chased out, I'd better let you rest."

She moved to put her cup down, but in the process upset it and spilt the dregs across her hand and the bed sheet.

Foyle took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. It had slight marks on it and by way of explanation he said, "It _is_ clean…it's the one from the, er…teapot incident."

Remembering how she had never been able to get the blood marks out, she had returned it guiltily thinking he would have made use of it as a rag. Seeing it now she laughed, "Poor old hanky never stands a chance with me around. I'm surprised you kept it."

Foyle said very softly, "Of course."

He picked up his hat, "You hang on to it for now." He smiled over at her, "I'll see you soon, Sam."

She nodded, watching him walk away through the ward, and out through the doors at the far end. Putting the hanky to her face she breathed in the smell of him and cried for the impossibility of it all.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you to those who have reviewed the chapters so far - it is much appreciated!

* * *

Chapter 5

**Summer 1942**

Sam woke, chest still aching slightly. She began trying to collect her thoughts that had been racing throughout the night; her sleep had been restless and uncomfortable, counting the hours between nurses' shifts and catching only snippets of sleep. She was not quite through the crossroads yet. With a sigh, Sam opened her eyes properly, seeing the strong sun of summer pouring through the windows at the far end of the ward. Nurse would be by any minute. It was all routine now.

They were sending her home today. The idea of home suddenly struck her and tears pricked her eyes. Perhaps it _was_ time to go home. How could she face Milner again in the corridors of Hastings station? How could she work alongside Foyle hours on end without him knowing the battle she had fought…for him? She could never tell him. It would be unthinkable to put him in such a position. Words whispered beside a hospital bed were one thing, but back in the real world of wartime and duty…It was hopeless; to remain in Hastings would only make it harder.

"How are we then, dear?" Nurse asked, setting a cup of tea on the bedside table. "Ready to be leaving us I expect?"

"Yes, nurse, though you've all been very kind. Thank you."

"Think nothing of it. Now, I'll help you pack, as your Mr Foyle is coming at eleven to collect you."

Sam bit her lip, wishing Nurse wouldn't call him _hers_. With a sinking feeling inside, Sam thought, _he'll never be mine. Not ever. Milner was right. I've been a fool…_

She sighed heavily, knowing she would miss her life in Hastings very much. There was nothing for it but to leave and start again. The last two years had been like a dream, but now it was time to wake up. Setting her jaw firmly, she sat up slowly.

At five minutes past eleven, Foyle shook hands with the doctor and followed Nurse to where Sam was waiting. He shook hands with Nurse as well, and picked up Sam's small bag. "Ready, Sam?"

"Yes, sir."

She saw his eyes flick back to her face in a moment's concern, and she supposed she must seem quite subdued. _I've got to tell him_.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, sir, but could we stop by my digs before going to the train station?"

Foyle stopped, the bag bumping against his leg. "The train station?"

Her lip trembled, despite having repeated the mantra of _you will not cry, you will not cry_ all morning. With a catch in her voice she said, "I'm going home to Lyminster. I thought it would be best."

Foyle looked confused but nodded slowly, "A proper rest?"

"It's not just that."

Putting the bag down in the cold corridor of the hospital, people walking past hurriedly and ignoring them, Foyle took a step closer. "What is it, Sam?"

"I can't….I think a break from work is….I…" she couldn't go on, and she erupted into silent sobs, turning away from him.

Foyle stood mutely, thoughts racing. A flutter of guilt crossed his face, and he closed his eyes against some painful inner thought.

"I respect whatever you have decided, Sam. If there is _anything_…I can do…I know I…" he broke off, chewing at his cheek. "You are greatly missed at the station, and please know you will always be welcome there."

"I know," she began, wiping her face. "It's just been a bit much…I feel so drained."

"You've been through a terrible ordeal, Sam; you need time and rest to feel your self again."

"I don't mean to let you down…"

"You aren't. Not a bit. I hope you will come back as soon as you are feeling up to it." He smiled at her, saying lightly, "The Sergeant's driving isn't a patch on yours."

"Thank you, sir."

"However, I don't think you're in a fit state to be lugging bags on and off trains. We'll drive you down to the vicarage. Does your landlady have a telephone? We can let your parents know to expect us."

"I rang them this morning. They know."

Foyle bit his lip. "Right."

Picking up the bag with one hand, he put the other on the small of her back, ushering her along the wide corridor. She walked slowly and leaned against him heavily after only a few minutes. The illness had taken so much energy from her. In addition, her heart felt like a leaden weight, pulling her down. _To be so close to him like this and yet…_

She was crying again, and Foyle eased her gently into the car. He kept shooting her concerned glances, worrying the inside of his cheek. Brookie gave her a cheeky smile from behind the wheel, but he noticed Foyle's grave manner and said nothing.

At her lodgings, Sam's landlady helped to pack her case, and Foyle stowed it in the boot. He helped her once more into the back of the car, putting a thick rug around her knees.

"We'll be there before you know it, Miss Stewart," Brookie said from the driver's seat, giving her a wink in the rear view mirror.

She smiled weakly, feeling half in a daze from so much exertion after days of immobility. "Not too fast, Brookie? She's a temperamental old beast at times…"

"Never fear, miss, I've got her tamed for now." Brookie nodded at Foyle as he slipped in to the passenger seat.

"Jolly good…" Sam said sleepily.

With that, she was fast asleep. When they arrived at Lyminster's vicarage about mid-afternoon, Mrs Stewart was waiting for them at the gate. Foyle had asked Sam's landlady to telephone ahead to say they would be driving down and not to meet the afternoon train. Brookie pulled up carefully, stopping neatly before the gate. Turning in his seat, Foyle reached back to gently shake Sam's shoulder.

"We're here, Sam."

She woke slowly, feeling groggy and woolly headed. The tightness in her chest felt very uncomfortable and she just wanted to sleep. She couldn't bear a goodbye.

Foyle got out and opened the back, leaning in asking softly, "Can you walk?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed.

"Sergeant? Give us a hand, would you?"

Between the two men, they gently pulled Sam from the back seat until she was slumped against the side of the Wolseley.

"Shall I, sir?"

Foyle nodded, a sudden lump forming in his throat. Brookie picked up Sam as if she were a doll and carried her towards the vicarage. Sam burrowed into his chest before falling asleep again. He whispered to Mrs Stewart, "If you'll lead the way, madam…"

"This way, Sergeant. Thank you."

Foyle closed the door to the Wolseley, and went to retrieve Sam's case from the boot. He took a few shuddering breaths before shaking his head firmly and following the others inside. Brookie was just coming down the stairs, followed by Mrs Stewart.

"Just leave her case there. She's tucked up for now. Thank you ever so much for bringing her all this way, Mr Foyle."

Foyle smiled at her, blue eyes slightly brighter than before. "M-my pleasure, Mrs Stewart."

"Iain's been called away, but won't you both stay for tea?"

"I'm afraid we won't. We should get back to Hastings."

"Well, something for the road then?" She disappeared into the kitchen before he could answer and came back with half a cake in a tin. "You have a long drive, so do take this with you."

"That's very kind, thank you."

"We're very grateful to you, Mr Foyle."

"Not at all." Foyle shook her hand, and returned to the car with Brookie. He gave the vicarage one last look before jamming his hat on his head with more force than was needed.

Once they were back on the road, Brookie spoke softly, "Miss Stewart will come back to us, won't she, sir?"

"I do hope so, Sergeant Brooke. I do hope so."

* * *

"Get some of this in you, my dear, you look all in."

"Thanks, Uncle Aubrey."

Sam took the glass of Greengage wine and flashed her uncle a weak smile. She had been away from Hastings for two weeks, resting and recovering her strength at home in the vicarage. Starting to go mad at being cooped up, Uncle Aubrey's was the first place she thought of. If she had to hear one more time from her father how God had answered all their prayers, and how she was going to be so much better off back in Lyminster, Sam thought she might scream. Being left alone with her thoughts hadn't helped much either. Therefore, much to her parent's protestations, she had hopped on a bus first thing Monday morning and had arrived in time for lunch. If she was going to be confined to a vicarage, she'd much rather it be her Uncle Aubrey's cheerful parish of St. Mary's.

"Now," began Aubrey, settling himself comfortably with a glass of his homemade wine, "why don't you tell your Uncle Aubrey all about it, eh?"

Sam gave him a grateful look. "I've been such a fool, Uncle." She took a deep breath, "I realised it when I was in hospital, you see. I really thought I was going to die. I know it sounds dramatic, but…"

Aubrey's face creased with a pained look, "Well, it _was_ awfully serious, dear girl, so perhaps not so dramatic."

"Yes, I suppose." Sam bit her lip, "Uncle, I hope…well, I hope you won't think too badly of me…" She paused, again taking a deep breath. "It's just…it's Mr Foyle."

"Ah, yes, I thought it might be."

Sam stared at him in amazement, "Pardon?"

Aubrey suddenly smiled broadly, "I shan't interrupt you any more, my dear. Do go on."

"Right." She took a hefty swig of the Greengage wine.

With that, all of the things that had happened since Andrew's letter, what she had thought of as she lay in hospital, the hope that had kept her going, suddenly poured out of her in a great rush.

Uncle Aubrey let her speak, listening attentively, years as a vicar standing him in good stead. Finally, with a choked sob, Sam finished with, "I love him, Uncle. I can't explain it, I just know it."

Aubrey nodded sagely, not saying anything for a moment. Finally, with a sigh he said, "Well, Samantha, I won't say it is wrong to love him. If ever a man needed succour, Mr Foyle certainly does. Poor man has suffered enough. However, to ask anything in return or to hope for more than we have been given…it is a temptation that leads us from giving what is needed to seeking our own purposes."

He patted her hand kindly, "You have no doubt brought a light back into Mr Foyle's life, and you have stood by him loyally while he has continued to grieve for his late wife and worry for his only son."

Sam nodded, wiping away a few tears, "Yes, I suppose so, Uncle."

"It is also perhaps advisable that you return to your duties? When you're feeling better, of course. You cannot run away from it, my dear girl. I cannot say that it will not be difficult to be there with the changed idea of him in your mind, but I have no doubt that your loyalty to him in your duties is something Mr Foyle values highly. It would be a shame to let him down, don't you think? When he needs you so very much?"

"I do miss it all…so very much. I miss…him. But…what about what I need?"

"He's been important in your life too, of course." Aubrey paused, clearing his throat, "Samantha, this isn't an easy thing to discuss, and I'm very glad you felt able to bring it to me. I hope that I can advise you well. You see, I rather think Mr Foyle will feel unable to return any affections. He is in a position of trust. To ask more of him would be putting him in an awkward situation."

"Even if…"

"Yes, even if you believe his words to have been reciprocal."

Sam gulped, "So, I'm meant to go back and ignore it all?"

"It is for the best, Samantha, you must see that?"

"Yes…" Sam said, pushing away tears, "I suppose I do." Sighing heavily, she added, You won't tell Father about this, will you?"

"Certainly not." Aubrey looked put out by the idea. "Iain hasn't got a bit of sense when it comes to matters of the heart, though you didn't hear that from me." He sipped his wine thoughtfully.

Sam gave him a watery smiled, "You don't think me silly, Uncle?"

Aubrey moved to sit beside her on the settee and put an arm around her still shaking shoulders, "I think you are a most caring, unselfish, wonderful young lady. You have a spectacular ability to help those who need it most. I've always thought so, even when you were small. You always think of others first…even in this case. I think, deep down, Samantha, you knew it would be awkward for Mr Foyle to try and confront any of these emotions you both have felt. Times of great stress, such as you have recently endured, bring out sentiments that would not normally arise."

"What do you mean? That he will have forgotten all about it now I'm better?"

"No, I mean that he might feel he has overstepped the mark slightly. He allowed his worry to get the better of him. I very much doubt he will let it happen again."

"And Paul?"

"You must carry on as normal. Mr Milner is your colleague. His reaction to what you told him was perhaps not what you wanted to hear, but he too has your best interests at heart."

"You agree with him, you mean."

"Samantha, I'm afraid we must be logical about this…"

"You make it sound so easy, Uncle Aubrey…"

"It isn't. It will be difficult, but I hope, my dear, that once you've come through the rough bit, you will see that it has been worth it. Your job and the life you lead in Hastings is very important to you, is it not? Don't run away from that because of something like this. You won't thank yourself for it later. No, Samantha, you must go back and face it all, and be the best you can be, for your own sake … as well as those whose lives you've touched. Running away never helps."

The culmination of their talk, the long bus ride and a tad too much of the wine led Sam to break into heart rending sobs. Uncle Aubrey pulled her to him, letting her lean against his shoulder. She cried as if the world were ending, and Aubrey found himself closing his eyes against tears of his own.

That Sam should be subjected to such emotions, well, it was the curse of the young, he thought. He had thought a time like this would come, when she would mourn the loss of love … the death of her Pilot beau, Andrew Foyle, for instance. Thank God, that had _not_ happened. Though Aubrey conceded that if it had, they might _still_ be in this situation. When Sam had arrived on his doorstep, he had not foreseen circumstances such as this. That she and Mr Foyle had a connection was clear as day; he'd seen it when they had been here investigating that lot over at Hill House last year. That it would come to this, well…it was not at all what he had expected.

"God tests us," he whispered, more to himself than to Sam. He patted her shoulder, "There, there, now…"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: For some reason the site was having trouble uploading new chapters, so beg pardon for the delay...  
Thought that Andrew would come to see his father before being sent off, so added this little bit in after some deliberation. Thanks for those who have reviewed the chapters so far!

* * *

Chapter 6

**Summer 1942**

Foyle trudged up the steps to his front door after saying a hushed goodbye to Sergeant Brooke. It had been a silent ride back to Hastings from the vicarage, Foyle very much lost in his own thoughts. Leaving Sam, not knowing if she would return, having no last words…Foyle felt rather at the end of his tether. It had been an unpleasant surprise — a shock even— when she announced she was going home. Foyle hadn't expected it at all. _What did I expect? To go round to her billet each day?_

The excuse of going home to rest was a decent one, certainly, but he remembered her words _it's not just that…_ What was it then? Had he scared her off? Had he said too much, done too much? It couldn't really be over like this, surely. The feeling of loss frightened him, reminding him too much of the past. He sighed as he turned the key, _serves me bloody well right for being so assuming. Maybe it is for the best…_

A bright voice from inside startled him nearly out of his wits as he stepped through the door. He jumped and stared wildly for a moment trying to register the words.

"Hallo, Dad!"

"_Andrew._ You very bloody nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?"

"Aren't you pleased to see me?" The younger Foyle smiled heartily and clapped his father on the shoulder.

Foyle gave a half smile, chest still heaving from the shock, "Very. Now, pour us a drink. Calm my nerves."

"I hoped you say that. I'm absolutely gasping for one."

Foyle closed his eyes a moment as he pulled off his coat and hat. "You home on leave then?"

"Two day pass. Nipped down as soon as I could." Andrew paused and there came the sound of clinking crystal. "Trains were packed. Took an age to get here."

Foyle came through, closing the door to the lounge, "Well, nice to see you. You keeping well?"

"Not too bad. Work is rather boring really. Missing my Spit…" Andrew handed him a tumbler and raised his. "Mud in your eye."

Sitting down heavily in his arm chair by the fireplace, Foyle ran a hand through his hair. He took a large swig of the whiskey, hoping it would calm him. _Of all the nights in the year he picks, it would be after a hellish day like this. Typical._

Foyle was glad to see Andrew though, and conceded after a moment of guilt that it was perhaps a good thing he had turned up like he had. It would take his mind off the day. He studied his son over the top of his glass, noticing the changes in the young man. Andrew looked quite smart and had styled his hair differently. It was long but it didn't seem to flop into his eyes like it used to when he was younger. He looked like a man of the world and Foyle felt suddenly full of pride.

"I wish your mum could see you, Andrew. She would have loved to see you in your uniform."

Andrew looked up in surprise, noticing at once Foyle's soft tone and uncharacteristic mention of Rosalind.

"I'm proud of you, Andrew. And I'm _very_ glad to see you."

The young man grinned and took a sip of his drink. "Glad to see you too, Dad. How are you?"

"Me? Oh I'm fine." He gave Andrew an upside down smile. There was a moment's silence between them and Foyle felt his shoulders relax slightly. His boy was home.

The peace wasn't to last long, however.

"Where have you been all day?" Andrew asked curiously. "I went down to the station but Sergeant Rivers said you were out."

Foyle bit his lip. _Here we go._

"Where do you think? On…er, police business."

"New driver?"

Foyle winced, "Not exactly." _Had he been watching from the window?_

Andrew played with the tumbler in his hands, turning it this way and that. "How is she?"

"Fine. Why?"

Andrew heaved a sigh, "Just asking."

"_You_ weren't very nice to her." Foyle shot him a withering look.

"I know." He grimaced, "Bloody, stupid war."

"Met someone else didn't you?"

"Nice girl, but not a patch on Sam. If truth be told, I was just lonely."

"Yes, well…" Foyle bit his tongue to stop himself saying what he really thought. The sooner they moved away from the topic of Sam, the better. He was in no state to be giving his son a dressing down.

"You hungry? Let's see what is in the pantry." Foyle stood hurriedly, crossing to the kitchen.

Andrew followed slowly. "Where is she, Dad?"

Foyle's muffled voice from the pantry called out, "I've got a bit of bacon left and a few potatoes. Some bread of course and a few tins…shall we open the Spam?"

"_Dad._"

Foyle stuck his head out from the pantry. "Well? Spam or bacon? Or are you going to eat me out of house and home and have both?"

Andrew gave him a sad, imploring look, "Where is Sam, Dad?"

"She's, er…gone home for a bit to see family. Things are quiet here and she hadn't had any leave since Christmas. All right? N-now, what do you want for tea?"

"You are impossible, you know that, Dad?" Andrew said in irritation. He came to stand beside his father frowning fiercely at the tins in the pantry. "Better save the bacon for the morning..."

Over their meal, Foyle managed to get Andrew talking about his life in Debden. He felt relieved the subject of Sam was closed…for now. Though Andrew had let the subject drop, Foyle could see that he wasn't convinced. They moved back to the lounge after washing up the dinner things and Foyle put on the wireless to hear the news. Andrew kept shifting agitatedly throughout the entire broadcast and chewing at a fingernail. Finally, Foyle turned it off.

"What is it, Andrew? Have you not told me something?"

Andrew looked up in surprise, "No. Why?"

"You can't sit still. I seem to remember you used to do that when you were small, so unless you need to visit the facilities, what is going on?"

Andrew grinned sheepishly, "Ever the detective."

Sitting up, he stared at his hands, "It hasn't been decided, but they are thinking about sending a group of us overseas. I don't have any details yet. There might be a promotion in it too. It's just on my mind, that's all."

"I see." Foyle leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.

"It's not just that either…Look, Dad, I know you are cross about what happened with me and Sam. I know it wasn't very decent of me to break it off in a letter…"

Foyle frowned, his eyes narrowing. _Why won't he drop it? _ "No, it certainly wasn't, but it's in the past, so let's just leave it at that."

"Why won't you talk about her? Has she really gone home on leave or are you just saying that?"

"Oh for God's sake, Andrew," Foyle erupted, patience completely gone. Though it was more impatience at himself, he took it out on the young man and his ever probing questions.

"Will you drop the subject of Sam once and for all?"

"No, I will not," Andrew said, his own impatience rising. "What's happened?"

"Nothing has happened. You broke it off, we've moved on, that's the end of it."

"_We've_ moved on?" Andrew said, an edge of incredulity creeping into his voice.

"_She's_ moved on," Foyle corrected himself, "Andrew, look, it's been months. What do you want? Do you think she'll come running back to you the moment she sees you?"

"No, of course not, I just wanted to see her. See how's she doing…"

"Well she isn't here, so you can't, and that's that."

"Has she gone back home because she's found someone else? Is she getting married to some jumped up farmer or…"

Foyle's heart was beating loudly in his ears, all his doubts and worries on the tip of his tongue ready to spill out. He chewed at his lip furiously to stop himself saying something he might regret. How was he meant to answer his son's questions about Sam when he didn't have a clue what was going on himself? It was too intolerable.

"…or have you had a falling out? Have you sent her away?"

Foyle stood, "Andrew, I will not discuss her with you. That is final. She has gone home on leave. End of subject."

His hands were shaking and he stuffed them roughly into his pockets. Going to his desk, he tried to put some distance between them. If Andrew saw his face, the game would be up. Though Foyle wished he and Andrew could be open with each other, he couldn't very well begin with the subject of Sam. He cleared his throat loudly.

"I don't understand you, Dad." Andrew shook his head, the anger melting from him. He sat thinking for a moment, trying to understand his father's irritation. In a voice that reminded Foyle forcefully of when Andrew was younger and in trouble, he said, "Are you mad with me?"

Foyle closed his eyes. "No, Andrew, I'm not mad with you. I just don't see the point in discussing her when its all over between you. No good comes from raking over the past."

"She's fine?"

"She is."

"And you're all right?"

"Yes."

Andrew nodded, finally satisfied. "Fine. We won't discuss her."

"Good." Foyle sat back down. "Chess?"

"Early night I think. Been a long day."

Andrew stood and came over to put a hand on his father's shoulder. He hesitated before saying, "I know…I haven't always been the man you would have liked me to be. I do hope I won't let you down though, Dad."

A look of pain crossed Foyle's face. "You could never let me down, Andrew."

"Well, anyway, it's good to be back."

"Fishing tomorrow?"

Andrew smiled, "If you like. Sleep well, Dad."

"You too. God bless, son."

Foyle watched Andrew walk away, waiting until the door to the lounge was shut. He closed his eyes and let the groan he had been holding for what seemed like the entire day escape slowly and painfully. _Damn it all, you fool_, he thought, holding his head in his hands. This agony over Sam would have to stop. He reasoned with himself firmly, eyes closed against his throbbing, aching thoughts, before standing and pouring himself another drink. He sighed, i_t would just never do…_

* * *

Foyle sat at his desk, engaging in a fight with his typewriter. Sam usually did his typing for him, but this was the third week of her absence and he couldn't put it off any longer. He usually never had any trouble with typewriters, but today the machine was just being contrary to spite him. He had somehow managed to jam it in the middle of typing a report and he was very close to calling it a day. The long shadows of the afternoon gave his office a rosy look. He sat back, pushing his chair away from his desk, watching the dust motes float through the air. Thinking about Andrew's latest letter, he sighed. When Andrew had been up on leave recently he had mentioned he might be shipped overseas. Now it looked as if the operation was going ahead. He couldn't say where he would be, of course, but Foyle suspected it would be nowhere safe.

Not wanting to think about it, he turned back to his typewriter. "Right, you…" he murmured under his breath, leaning over the machine. The telephone shrilled just then, making him jump. He clucked his teeth in annoyance, and turned to pick up the receiver.

"Yes?" there was a slight echo and he heard the impatience in his voice. He cleared his throat.

"Mr Foyle?"

"Yes?"

"It's Sam."

Foyle froze for a moment.

"Hallo? Hallo are you there?"

"Yes, sorry, er, bad connection. I'm here."

"How are you, sir?"

"Er…fine, thanks. Er…You?"

_She obviously hasn't called to talk about the weather, man, do say something more than 'er'_…Foyle rolled his eyes but stopped from clucking his teeth again. _I'm no better than a schoolboy…_

"Yes, all fine here. Feeling in top form, so I've called to ask if I am still able to return to my duties?"

Foyle heard her holding her breath on the line, and he smiled to himself. "Thought you'd never ask. I'm currently arriving late everywhere and the ruddy typewriter is giving up the ghost. Sergeant Rivers never brings me biscuits with my tea either. We need you back like a shot."

He heard her laugh softly and it slipped down the line to tickle his ear. "Jolly good, sir. Tomorrow?"

"Are you in Hastings?"

"No, sir. I can take the train in the morning."

"I'll be there to meet you with the car."

"You needn't, sir, I'll be fine."

"I insist."

"Thank you, sir. See you then."

"Until tomorrow."

They rang off and Foyle stared at the receiver a moment before replacing it. Smiling to himself, he stood and went to the window. He thought his heart might leap from his chest. _How does she do it? I'm sitting here worrying about Andrew and she rings up with the best news I've had in weeks. It's as if she knows…_

Though he was overjoyed that Sam would be returning, he cautioned himself to not be too familiar. He didn't want to scare her off again. "Strictly business, Foyle," he murmured to himself before going to find Brookie and inform him of Sam's return.

The two policemen were there right on time to meet Sam off the train the next morning. Foyle stood with his hands in his coat pockets, shuffling his feet on the platform. He'd left Brookie by the car. The train puffed up in a great cloud of steam and he craned his neck to see which carriage she was in. The sun caught a head of blond hair alighting from the carriage to his left. _There she is._

"Sam!" he called.

"Hallo, sir." She grinned at him.

He returned the smile, noticing she was back in uniform, looking very presentable if not a bit thinner. The illness really had taken it out of her and Foyle thought she could probably have done with a few weeks of feeding up. She looked different — older somehow, as if something more than the illness had aged her features. Her step was determined and her face passive. Foyle felt he was staring and quickly cleared his throat.

Taking her bag, he led the way to the car. "Police escort for you…" he said, smiling.

"How grand!" She walked beside him easily. "How are you, sir?"

"Fine, Sam." He bit back all the things he wanted to say, chewing his cheek instead.

Brookie's face broke into his usual cheeky grin as they walked up. "Miss Stewart, how nice to see you looking so well."

She put a hand on his arm, and grinned back, "Hallo, Brookie."

"Shall I leave the old beast in your charge?" He waggled his eyebrows at her and held up the keys. "The car I mean." He winked.

"Rather!" She took the keys and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. "You're still incorrigible, I see. Things been all right here?"

"They've been fine, miss. Be much better now you're here of course."

Foyle came around from the boot. "Ready?"

They all got in to the Wolseley and Foyle smiled across at Sam in the driver's seat. He was glad to see her there again; relieved she was back and grateful that she was her old self. It made it easier, somehow.

The car started with a grumbling roar and Sam slid it into gear. Turning to Foyle, she asked brightly, "Where to, sir?"


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Some answers at last...

* * *

Chapter 7

**May 1945**

Andrew stared at Sam across the interior of the Wolseley. He loosened his collar and ran a hand through his hair, recalling Foyle's edginess on his first night of leave. Something clicked into place. "So that's why…" He shook his head, "You were away recovering from being ill and he _never_ told me while I was home on leave. He'd just spent days by your bedside and he never…"

He frowned. "_Bloody hell_."

"I'm sure he had his reasons," said Sam soothingly.

"Hmm, I suppose. I can't _believe_ he didn't mention it…" Andrew still looked a bit put out.

"So, what happened next?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I recovered; slowly at first, but then more quickly. After a few weeks at home to rest and to take stock, I suppose…I returned to Hastings. I threw myself into the job because it was all I had, and I couldn't bear not to be near him."

"He must have noticed?"

Sam shifted in her seat, smiling, "Perhaps, but I had left all that behind. I knew it was impossible, even if he did feel something for me. I thought it was for the best to leave it be…I was afraid of losing him completely. I just carried on as normally as possible."

"So you…just ignored what you felt?" Andrew shook his head, "I could never do that."

"Yes. I know." She looked at him shrewdly and he winced, realising his words.

"Sorry. So what changed to bring you together then?"

"You know, Andrew, you're awfully curious. Just like your father." She smiled warmly at him, finding his tenacity endearing and perceptive.

She shifted again, her back beginning to ache. "Look, why don't we move on to somewhere more comfortable. I feel like a balloon."

"You aren't putting me off, I hope?" Andrew grinned. "No, of course — where shall we go? A pub?"

"Not home?"

"I'd rather wait to see Dad first, if you don't mind, Sam. He might not want me there."

"Don't be silly, Andrew. Of course he will. But I am starving. Let's go somewhere nearby for lunch."

"All right. As long as it has beer…" Andrew grimaced and added, "I might be in need of it."

Sam brought the engine to life and slid into gear, driving them along the coast road to a small collection of buildings. Before the war it had been a popular section of beach, shops busy selling ice creams and buckets. Now there was just the old inn still open, mouldering near the sloping edge of beach.

"I could murder an ice cream," said Sam wistfully.

"Then Dad would have to put you on a charge for a wilful act of violence…or something."

Sam smirked at some private memory and muttered, "_Indeed_."

She pulled to a stop outside the inn and they got out. Andrew hurried to her side to help her and offered her his arm as they walked across the gravel. Up close she saw more clearly the lines that had gathered on his forehead from stress, and the shadow of ill health that hadn't quite left his face yet. A faint hint of stubble was beginning on his chin. In this silent study she saw now only aspects of his father. She suspected, however, that Andrew wouldn't lose his hair as quickly.

Inside they found a comfortable table and the proprietor came to Sam's rescue with a suggestion of, "I believe I have something that will be to your liking. A lovely bit of roast chicken. The end of the war and all that, and you two such a lovely couple. You just back then, sir?"

"Yes. Today in fact. But—"

"A drink on the house for you, sir!"

"Thank you. By the way—"

"They haven't actually announced the end," Sam cut in, "I do wish they would, it seems silly to keep holding on."

Andrew looked a bit bemused at being mistaken as Sam's husband, and would have corrected the man if he had been able to get a word in edge-wise.

"I do hope Mr Churchill will announce it soon," Sam added.

"Any day now, madam, any day now," said the proprietor tapping his nose. He went off behind the bar, humming to himself contentedly.

"Right. Continue with your story?" Andrew asked swiftly.

Sam nodded, "Yes, where was I?" She thought a moment, "Oh yes."

Settling back comfortably she began, "Well, do you remember a Lydia Nicholson — she is your father's God-daughter. Her father was his commanding officer."

Andrew frowned, trying to place her. "Y-yes, I think I know who you mean. I only met her once when I was very small."

They paused as the proprietor returned with their drinks.

When he had left them alone again, Andrew looked at Sam, "But what does she have to do with you two? Honestly, Sam, has he been giving you evasion tactics with your morning tea? You haven't properly answered a _thing_."

"Don't be so impatient," Sam laughed. He rolled his eyes and grinned.

"She came to Hastings with her son in the spring of 1943."

"Isn't that when Dad resigned?"

"_Andrew_."

"Right. Do continue." He folded his arms across his chest.

"As I was saying," Sam began. "Lydia came to Hastings with her young son. He had been in the Sandhurst Road School bombing. He was quite unhurt, but wouldn't speak a word afterwards, poor little chap. She was rather at her wits end and no family to speak of. She and your father hadn't spoken for years because she had eloped and broken contact with everyone."

Sam paused to take a sip of her lemonade. "On the second day of their stay with your father, she posted a letter to him and left. Just left James, her son, for your father to look after."

"Golly," Andrew breathed, "did she intend to do herself harm or did she just run off?"

"She walked into the sea with stones in her pockets."

Andrew shook his head, "Poor thing."

"Your father asked for my help to look after James. He was up to his ears in uncovering a gambling racket and acts of sabotage along the coast. It was really the last thing he needed. As I said before, the little chap wouldn't speak a word. He just sat looking out into space. I hadn't a clue what to do with him, really, but we muddled through. On the third day of this I thought taking him out into the woods might help — you know, picnic and fresh air. In the end I suppose, despite what happened, it _did_ help."

Andrew leaned forward, "What happened?"

Sam rested her chin in her hands. "I'll tell you. Then perhaps you will understand why we came together as we did."

Andrew nodded, his full attention on her. He leaned in even closer, elbows on the table edge. He was desperate to understand.

* * *

**Spring 1943**

Foyle walked slowly down the echoing stairs of the hospital. He was very glad that Lydia had been found in time, but his heart felt heavy with the actions she'd taken. Her poor boy must feel so abandoned too. Foyle wished he could speak with him, but James didn't seem to take in anything around him. He hoped Sam's idea of a spot of fresh air with a picnic in the woods might help matters.

Unfortunately, it was just another worry on his already full desk. The new commissioner wouldn't leave off and let him get on with things, and now with Lydia and James being here… Foyle sighed heavily. Thank goodness for Sam. An indomitable spirit if there ever was one; she accepted her new role of child care without qualm or question, and continued to encourage him with her words of support. He would have to prevail on her for a few days more until Lydia could come home.

Not for the first time, Foyle asked himself what he would do without Sam. The fact that he felt he couldn't do without her was telling. He had done well at pushing away more than companionable concern and attention in the last year, hard as it was. The few weeks she had spent away after her illness had brought him up short, and he was grateful she had returned to them in her usual spirits.

He hoped, in a self-effacing way, that she would find someone else. A younger, lively, caring someone that would take her away from war and hardship and make a fulfilling future with her. He didn't want to lose her, but he didn't want her waiting around Hastings, hoping for something he could never give her. What would people say? As much as it burdened him, he did his best to let his feelings slip to the wayside. _It's better for her this way_, he reasoned with himself. _She'd be better off with Milner…or Brookie or any other man…_

Foyle frowned pensively, feeling suddenly sorry for himself. There had been a time he had thought Milner and Sam _would_ come together, and it had been excruciating to watch. After she'd returned from her stint in hospital however, Sam had seemed indifferent to his sergeant. Which of course had led him to wonder for the umpteenth time why she had gone back to Lyminster like she had…_almost as if she had been running away from something…_

Glad of the fresh air and brisk walk, Foyle tried to take himself in hand. Sam deserved someone young and full of promise, and that was the end of it. Time to stop wondering over the past. He would carry on as usual. He nodded to himself firmly, chewing his lip in frustration. _I'll try, anyway_.

Upon returning to the station, Milner called out to Foyle, catching Brookie's eye as he did so. Foyle looked up, swaying on his toes like a dancer. He'd still been deep in thought about the cases piling up on his desk, and Milner's strained voice had startled him.

"Sir, Sam and James were involved in…in an incident in the woods." Milner paused, tapping a pencil against his hand in agitation, "Those two lads we were trying to find, Terry and Frank, blew up a small bomb in the middle of the woods. Sam and James were nearby — they are both fine, sir, a bit knocked about, but both perfectly fine."

The colour had drained from Foyle's face and at "perfectly fine," he whipped around to Brookie.

"Get the car."

"Yes, Mr Foyle."

Foyle looked back at Milner, "Where are they?"

"At your house, sir. We're looking for Terry and Frank now. No one was hurt, thank goodness."

Foyle nodded, "Right, thank you, Milner." He pivoted on his heel, going back out to find Brookie starting the engine of a police car. Chewing his cheek furiously he slid in next to the young sergeant.

"As fast as you can, Sergeant Brooke."

"Right you are, sir."

At Steep Lane Foyle didn't wait for Brookie to pull away before racing up the steps. Entering his house he called out, endeavouring to keep the panic from his voice and not entirely succeeding.

"Sam!"

He burst in to the lounge, still in his coat and hat, eyes wide and searching.

"Here, sir."

She came in from the kitchen, uniform jacket off, tie loosened. Her hair was dishevelled and Foyle spied a stray leaf stuck in her curls. There was a slight smudge of dirt on her cheek, still quite pale underneath the freckles, and a tear in her stockings. The fear in his eyes retreated as he saw her whole before him.

He took his hat off, eyes finding hers. "You both all right?"

"We're fine," she said steadily. "All in one piece."

Foyle saw, however, the slight dip of her eyebrows. A betraying frown of an attempt to keep emotion in check. Something inside him snapped, crumbling beyond a place where he might capture it again. He crossed the lounge with long strides, taking her up in his arms without a word. He realised _he_ was trembling, the sudden relief of knowing she was all right welling up in him.

The grip of her arms around his neck tightened, and she drew her breath in slowly. Foyle stepped into the embrace properly, feeling her body — her beautiful, whole, unhurt body — against his own. Quite unconsciously he turned his head slightly to nuzzle into her neck, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He murmured, "I might have lost you."

"We're all right, really. James is fine." Her fingers found their way to his hair, stroking the soft curls at his neck soothingly, "He's quite changed in fact. Seems to have released the flood gates, as it were. It's all come unstuck — he kept shouting for a Mrs Jukes. Poor little chap."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I never can seem to keep you out of trouble, can I?"

"You weren't to know," she whispered with a little huff of laughter.

"Where is he?"

"I sent him up to get ready for a bath. Our picnic was rather ruined, as you might imagine, so I'm afraid I've raided your larder. I thought it best to eat something first."

Foyle smiled at this and pulled back to face her. "Good."

Their foreheads were nearly touching and his hands were clasped about her arms. Catching each other's eyes, something passed between them in the look and Sam smiled softly, knowingly even — a warm flush returning to her cheeks.

Feeling suddenly a bit awkward, having realised his boldness, Foyle closed his eyes and hung his head, "S-sorry." He squeezed her arm, "I was, um, worried…"

She was saved from answering as a little voice behind them said, "Where's my mummy. I want my mummy. What've you done with 'er?"

Foyle released Sam immediately, and turned sharply, coat swishing around him. He looked down at the small boy, who clearly _hadn't_ gotten ready for a bath beyond taking off his pullover and letting his socks gather about his ankles. He was covered in dirt and looked up into Foyle's face indignantly.

"I haven't done anything with her, James. Your Mum is, er, not very well and is in hospital to have a bit of a rest. We'll go see her tomorrow."

The boy crossed his arms and looked defiant. "It's Jimmy. No one calls me James, only 'er. And I don't like it 'ere."

"Right." Foyle glanced back at Sam in amusement, catching her eye.

Sam stepped around Foyle with a grin, "Right then, young sir, let's get you into that bath." She steered him towards the stairs by his shoulders.

"I don't want a bath; I _told_ you…" he stomped his foot on the first step as if to make his point.

"Be that as it may, you'll be having one. Now up you go…" replied Sam firmly. She shot a glance back at Foyle in the lounge, who was looking rather deflated in his coat, hat held limply in his hand.

"There's a bit of bread left and an egg or two."

He nodded at her, smiling, watching her trudge up the stairs behind Jimmy. Taking a deep breath, Foyle closed his eyes. _Thank you, God._ Perhaps he should feel guilty for being so familiar with her, at taking such liberties and assuming, but he didn't. It felt only normal and right. It shouldn't, but Foyle felt suddenly weary. His heart wasn't in fighting his emotions any longer.

Peeling off his coat, he hung it and his hat in the hall. The bathroom door was open and he heard a splash of water and the undignified yelp of a six year old boy's pride being doused. Foyle grinned, remembering back to his own son at bath time. Why is it boys never want to get clean? He shook his head, thinking Sam would have her work cut out for her. Her voice from upstairs made him pause.

"If you hold still, it will make it all the less tiresome and you'll be out much more quickly."

There was a small grumbling voice and Sam's firm reply, "Now no cheek from you, Jimmy. It isn't all _that_ awful."

Foyle heard the little voice again, "Why was you 'olding Uncle Christopher? You aren't 'is wife? My mum said 'e 'ad no wife and I wasn't to ask about it."

"No, I'm not his wife. But we've had rather an adventure today and he was making sure we were all right."

There was another splash and the curious little voice continued, "But why?"

"Well, your Uncle Christopher wanted to be reassuring."

"_Reassur_…?" Jimmy stopped, uncertain of the word. "Well, I don't like 'im."

"_Jimmy_," Sam said evenly, "he's a good man. He was worried about us."

"Yeah, but 'e's a copper. I don't like coppers."

"That's right, he is, and it's no reason not to like him. He's a very good policeman. And if you don't hold still and let me wash your hair I'll ask him to put you in prison for the night."

Foyle chuckled and left her to it, going back into the lounge. He poured a stiff whiskey, and after a thought, poured a second glass for Sam. Her words drifted through his mind and he smiled softly. In the kitchen he quickly fried an egg and put it with some bread. As he sat at the table he thought about Sam.

He had constantly tried his best _not_ to — she was his much younger driver, and it was entirely inappropriate. Yet, he couldn't shake the recent memory of her body against his own and the relief he'd felt when seeing she was all right. He bit his lip, remembering her fingers in his hair and how she had melted into his arms. Even trying to remind himself that he had never intended to become so close with her didn't help, because after all his good intentions, here he was.

She had been Andrew's girl; she was his driver; she was far too young; he had no right…all these things crossed his mind, and he squared his shoulders. _Stop this now_, Foyle he told himself firmly. He would apologise and hope Sam would forgive him for being so forward.

As he washed up he tried to steel his resolve, but found it was more difficult than it had ever been before. _I should be used to this by now_, he thought ruefully. He was putting away the plates and frying pan when she came back down.

"He's asleep. Tired out from today I should think, poor boy."

Foyle closed the cupboard and turned, "Thank you, Sam. I appreciate all you've done for him."

She had washed her face and combed out her hair in an attempt to clean away the after effects from the bomb. Smelling of his soap and of something else entirely her own, Foyle felt his insides give a pleasant leap as she came closer.

Sam looked at him brightly, "I don't mind at all. Is his mother going to be all right?"

"Eventually. I'll take him to see her tomorrow."

"Good luck is all I can say. He doesn't much care for 'coppers' apparently."

"Hmm, so I heard."

Sam blushed to Foyle's surprise. Thinking it had to do with Jimmy's questions about his embrace, he cleared his throat.  
"I apologise for being so forward earlier, Sam. I do hope you…"

She cut him off, "Don't." Coming towards him, she lay a hand on his arm, "Please don't be sorry. I was rather in need of it." She smiled warmly, glancing up at him.

He nodded and cleared his throat again. Holding up the second tumbler he said, "Er...a drink?" 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**Spring 1943**

Sam took the tumbler from Foyle and followed him into the lounge where they sat quietly for a moment, regarding each other. He felt his nerves tingling. It felt both pleasant and unnerving.

"Do you know," Sam began, "this is the third time I've been blown up."

"Is it? I can't say I was counting," Foyle said, thinking perhaps that wasn't entirely true. He remembered them well enough, but hadn't realised it was so many occasions. Once was more than enough, and he felt a wave of guilt as he realised he was to blame for most of them.

"Yes," she replied, taking a swig of the whiskey.

She suddenly looked indignant. "First Jerry blew us up in a pub; then Jerry blew up my house, and then I was nearly sent up by a bomb at a petrol depot. I suppose it doesn't really count, seeing as it didn't go off…and now today in the woods. Honestly, _nowhere_ is safe these days. " She shook her head, taking another sip.

Foyle felt his heart pound at the memories as she rattled off each occasion. He had nearly lost her so many times; and her illness last year too had been a near miss. He had been at his wits end then. Shaking his head he tried to push away the thoughts. _She's your driver, man, pull yourself together_. It was no good. He stood abruptly and began to pace, chewing his lip.

Sam watched him for a moment. "Nevertheless, I'm lucky, sir. Wouldn't you say?"

Foyle nodded, not meeting her eye. He paused by the front window and pulled the blackout curtain across, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. I've allowed you to come to danger too many times." His voice was soft.

Sam was suddenly concerned, "I say, you aren't going to send me packing are you?"

Foyle looked up, "Certainly not. I only mean to say that…um, well…"

"I am the one who should be sorry. I don't mean to get in to so many jams."

"Well, not as sorry as I would have been had I lost you."

Foyle closed his eyes. _Damn, I wasn't going to say that._

Sam set her whiskey down. "I see."

"You are irreplaceable…you know, I'd never get anywhere on time if I left it up to the Sergeant." He smiled feebly, feeling he was suddenly right in the place he had tried to avoid.

Foyle sat back down. "Anyway, Milner is busy looking for the two lads. And if I can get the Commissioner off my back for two minutes, I'm hopeful we can charge Hans Lindemann for shooting Mr Richards."

He had changed the subject to their current case and he saw that she knew it. She sat back, crossing her arms, looking at him.

"Mr Foyle," she began.

He met her eyes, feeling suddenly nervous under the determined gaze of the young woman.

"If you are trying to say you'd be sad if I was…gone, then thank you."

"Well, naturally, but I, er…" Foyle cleared his throat, thinking this wasn't going at all like he'd hoped. He began to fiddle with a button on his waistcoat.

"Because I would be quite lost myself without you. I suspect you know that, however."

He chewed his cheek, not daring to look at her. _Stop this now_, some small voice said, growing ever fainter at the back of his mind.

She leaned forwards, "Mr Foyle, would you say we make a good team?"

"I...I would, but I don't see—"

"I believe so too. I think, in fact, that we've been such a good team for so long that we would go rather to pieces if faced with being without the other."

Foyle's eyes went wide with surprise and he sat up. _Is she saying…?_ He swallowed hard.

"Sam," he began, putting up a hand, "it's better left alone, don't you think?"

"No, I jolly well don't. We've left it for long enough. I can't do it any more." She stood, frowning at him, "Am I wrong in thinking…you care for me?" The frown deepened and Foyle saw her eyes become bright.

He clenched his teeth and murmured, "But I'm too old, and I'm your boss, and you were Andrew's…"

She was suddenly in front of him kneeling beside his chair. "You won't always be my boss. I stepped out with Andrew what feels like a lifetime ago when we were playing at love. I know the difference now."

"Sam please," Foyle said, passing a hand across his forehead.

"And you aren't too old. In fact, I think you are _just_ old enough."

Foyle smiled softly in spite of himself. "If only I had your optimism."

She looked at him imploringly, "This is not easy for me. But you _must_ know. It isn't just because of bombs all over the place, but it was my illness too. I don't know how many more chances I'll get. Don't you see?"

"But we can't…"

"You can't or you won't? You can't deny it, surely?" Sam asked, tears finally spilling over.

Foyle's face filled with despair, "I don't know what to do, Sam. I want…I want to do what is right."

"Am I wrong?" she asked again, eyes wide with fear of what he might say. A few more tears escaped, slipping slowly, almost painfully down her cheek.

He took a shuddering breath, weighing the options, a battle going on behind his eyes.

She took his hand, "Oh please, just tell me if I'm wrong. I don't want to be wrong about this. For so long I have tried to dismiss this, but I can't any longer. Not after today."

Foyle touched her cheek, "You're not wrong."

He closed his eyes and let out his breath, as if a huge weight had finally been released.

"Thank goodness," Sam choked back a sob, "I couldn't bear to be without you."

He held her chin, tilting her face up. "There is not a day that goes by that I don't think about you, Sam. About all you've done for me. I told myself that it was selfish to keep you near me; that I was leading you towards a life that would never be fulfilling. I…" His voice caught in his throat.

"If I'd had the courage, Sam, I would have sent you away long ago to find someone who could make you happy."

"But _you_ make me happy," she whispered with a sniff, bottom lip trembling. "Don't you see? I couldn't be happy with anyone else."

He closed his eyes, "Are you sure? What if I can't give you all you want…"

She put a hand on his cheek, eyeing him carefully, "I would like to believe that you trust my judgement. After all that has happened…so many near misses, and you there to catch me each time…I know you are _everything_ I could ever hope for."

The corners of Foyle's mouth turn downwards, a mixture of a smile and sentiment reflected in the motion. He pulled her roughly to him in an embrace, his voice husky and tight with emotion, "I've nearly lost you so many times, Sam. I can't stand the thought…I was so worried today…I…I…"

She shushed him with a kiss. Foyle pulled back in surprise, like he'd been scalded. His face was so bewildered that Sam laughed, and raising an eyebrow in amusement, she waited.

He smiled back shyly, "I didn't, um…expect that."

"Obviously." She grinned now, "Shall I warn you this time?"

He laughed and pulled her back towards him. Leaning in with a smile, he touched her nose with his, nudging her…beckoning her in again. This time, he kissed her properly, capturing her lips with his. He felt his heart racing as if it would burst from his chest. _Sam! Darling, darling Sam_. He seemed to lose any thoughts but those of the woman in his arms.

"I don't want to ever let you go, Sam," he murmured.

"I'm here," she whispered, kissing him fervently, "if you want me. I'll never go away from you. No running from you again."

"Is it why you left? After being in hospital?"

She nodded, murmuring against his lips, "Uncle Aubrey said I couldn't run from it. I came back to face it all. I couldn't bear not being near you."

"I must remember to thank him…I was going nearly out of my mind without you."

"Were you?" she smiled in the midst of his kiss. "Oh what fools we've been…"

"Let me keep you close, Sam?"

Foyle felt her nod, and with a trembling breath of relief he put all of himself in his kiss; his fingers, lost in her hair, pulled her deeper and closer. His eyes had suddenly filled with tears but he didn't mind if she saw. He had never thought he could love again, nor could he have believed his love for this young woman would ever be returned. He cried for the relief of it all — no longer able to deny himself.

She had been kneeling before his chair, and now, having pulled her to him, she was between his knees, her elbows resting on the chair arms, fingers in his hair. Her mouth was open to him, allowing his tongue to make an exploration. She strained forward to try to get closer. _She is enchanting beyond measure_ he thought, heart soaring. He felt her begin to shake and a warning voice in his mind caused him to ease his eagerness.

Foyle pulled back, looking at her with a smile. Twitching his lips he said, "If my memory serves me right, children have a sixth sense about these sorts of things, and we are bound to be interrupted sooner or later. So, let's finish our drink…over here."

He stood, breathing deeply to calm himself, leading her to the settee. They sat beside each other and Sam took his hand.

"You're lovely." She gazed at him longingly. "We've been silly to ignore it, haven't we."

Foyle gave an upside down smile, "I'm not sure. You still work for me. It isn't the done thing."

Sam sighed, leaning her head back to gaze at the ceiling. "I know. You're right of course."

Foyle paused a moment. "Um, I really meant it earlier when I said I don't know what to do. Sam, this could become very difficult…"

"I don't see why it should."

Foyle looked at her carefully. How could she not see why this might go badly? What people might say of her, of how Andrew would react, of what it might mean to both their jobs… "You mean keep it secret?"

"Until we work something out, perhaps."

"Hmm." Foyle nodded, thinking. "Leave it with me." He would do whatever it took to keep her. Now that he'd found her, or perhaps more accurately, now she had found him beneath the walls he'd erected over the years, and coaxed him out, he wasn't about to let it all go.

She lifted her head and smiled at him. "You'll think of something, I know you will." She crept closer to him, "But for now, can we just enjoy the fact that I wasn't blown to Kingdom Come?"

He traced her smiling lips with a finger. "Christopher..." she breathed in a voice that made his stomach drop with sudden desire.

Foyle kissed her again, the reminder of the fluidity of life in this war spurring him into action. He reassured himself that all of her was still in one piece, his hands wandering and exploring purposefully and delicately. Fingers tracing her cheek, inching down to her slender neck, slipping to cup a breast, and coming to rest heavily on her hip. He almost couldn't believe it was Sam here beside him; that he had her love. To touch her made his fingertips tingle.

"Oh how I have dreamed of this," he murmured.

"As have I," Sam whispered back, "we've wasted years with dreaming, haven't we? I don't want to waste another moment."

"Nor do I, Sam, but we must think this through." Foyle paused and pulled back. "I want you by me, but my first thought has to be for James."

"Of course," Sam said, nestling in the crook of his arm. "We shall carry on as before. I'll look after him, and Lydia too when she comes out of hospital."

Foyle looked down at her, face a mixture of awe and warmth. It never ceased to amaze him how she constantly thought of others first. "I do adore you."

She kissed him, "How nice to hear you say it."

"Lydia will need our support, that is certain." Foyle bit his lip. "I've got to finish up these cases too. If only the Assistant Commissioner would get off my back."

"Is it just me, or is he even worse than the last one?"

Foyle prodded her, "That's enough of that." He smiled, "You may be right though. He could prove to be a complication in this case."

Sam reached up to smooth his furrowed brow. "What's been happening while I've been away? I miss driving you."

Foyle held her to him tightly, not wanting to let her go. Snuggling closer, they talked as they had always done, allowing their new closeness to sink in slowly. With Police work, they had often talked openly, and now was no exception. Foyle respected Sam's keenness and knew her different points of view often helped him see things in a new light. That she was curled into his side, sighing happily in contentment, was something he had never allowed himself to believe. Though the world was locked in conflict, Foyle had never felt happier or more relieved. _If Sam is beside me, I can get through it all, come hell or high water…yes, indeed…_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

**Spring 1943**

Sam came back each morning to Foyle's house to look after James during the day while Foyle was at the station, and left each night after dinner and putting James to bed. They would sit and talk together before Foyle walked her home. Though the discussion of what she and Foyle would do was still unspoken, she left him to get on with more pressing matters. It was enough for her that he returned her love. They could make plans later, she had assured him. She could see the strain the unresolved cases were putting on him, and the Commissioner was still in Hastings conducting his inspection of the coastal constabularies.

Lydia came out of hospital four days after the bomb in the woods. Sam and James went to collect her and drove back to Steep Lane together. Sam had her hands full as both nurse and child minder, getting them all settled in to some sort of routine. James kept coming in and out of his mother's room, ready to be cheeky towards her again now he'd found his voice. Sam, however, found being firm was best, and kept him occupied as much as possible. Lydia wasn't ready to deal with James just yet; she could hardly find the strength to get up during the day.

When Foyle came home that evening, his face was dark. Sam met him in the hall with a peck on the cheek, "How did it go with the Commissioner?"

"Where are they?"

"Lydia is in bed; she's just had something to eat, and James…I mean _Jimmy_, is finishing his in the dining room."

Foyle nodded, pulling off his coat. "I need to speak with you, Sam."

Noticing his troubled face, Sam took his hand. "Have you eaten? No? Right, well have something now and a cup of tea too…"

She lead him into the dining room and made him sit. James glared at him across the table and Foyle shot back a withering glance that made the little boy subside quickly.

"Why don't you tell Uncle Christopher what you did today, Jimmy?" Sam suggested as she prepared a plate for Foyle.

James shrugged, "We read some silly story and then _she_," he shot an indignant glance at Sam, "made me do maths. I hate maths. Maths is for girls."

"Is it now? Well, I think many scientists would disagree with you."

He pulled a face.

Sam poked him, "Well you've got to keep up with school work, now don't you? Haven't you finished yet? Eat up, then it's time to get ready for bed."

"I don't like carrots."

"Neither do I," said Foyle unexpectedly, "but you'll find it's better than having no dinner at all." He gave the boy a fierce look, though his eyes had softened slightly. Jimmy shovelled the rest of his carrots in his mouth, then announced, "I'm done, can I go?"

"Yes, you may," Sam said, adding, "go say goodnight to your mum and then I'll bring up that story we were reading."

James rolled his eyes and trudged off.

When the door to the lounge had shut, rather loudly in this instance, Foyle caught her hand and pulled her onto his knee.

"You're a natural," he murmured, kissing her gently.

Sam kissed him back, before saying, "Do you really not like carrots?"

Foyle laughed, "I don't give a tuppence about them." He motioned to the chair next to him, "Sit down, I want to tell you something."

Sam settled herself into the chair, plucking one of his carrots off his plate and popping it into her mouth. "I'm listening."

"Sam, I've resigned from the Police force. Handed my resignation after seeing the Commissioner."

She stopped chewing and stared at him. Swallowing hard she asked, "But why?"

"The Commissioner has made it obvious that upholding the law is not his first priority. I can't be a part of that, and I think I can be more useful for the war effort elsewhere."

"Besides," he took her hand, "perhaps it is time I gave my attention to other things."

"But…what will you do? What about the rest of us? Will I drive your replacement? What will we do without you?" She fired these questions at him in dismay, her eyes suddenly filling with tears at the thought of such a dramatic change.

Seeing she had failed to see his point, Foyle hurriedly tried to assure her. "It means, Sam, that you can continue in your position if you like, but moreover, it means I can ask if you would do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Sam stared at him again. "But…so…you left the Police to marry me?"

"Well, not exactly," said Foyle, "it just has happened all at the same time really. Call it a perk." He tried to smile, but her thunderstruck face was suddenly making him worried.

"I see where he gets it from," Sam muttered.

"Sorry?"

"Your son." She looked at him fiercely. "You two have the oddest idea of romance I've ever encountered."

"R-right…" Foyle looked distinctly worried now. "Um…"

Sam suddenly threw her arms around his neck, knocking him back in his chair, "Can we really be married? Oh I accept! Yes, yes!"

"Well, thank goodness for that." Foyle said from under her arm, "I thought I'd have to telephone your father again and tell him you wouldn't have me."

"You spoke to Father?"

"As soon as I got back to the station from seeing the Commissioner. You don't mind, I hope?"

"No, of course not." She kissed him, grinning against his lips. "What did he say? Did he die of shock?"

"I think your mother rather took him in hand. He did give us his blessing though."

Sam laughed, "Good old Mummy."

"So, er…did Andrew propose too?" Foyle pushed back to look at her, still baffled by her comment.

"No, silly, but you _do_ both have a skewed idea of what is romantic."

She suddenly giggled, "So, Christopher Foyle, are you sure you're ready for all this. I must warn you I'm a handful."

"I'm counting on it," he murmured in her ear, making her giggle all the more.

Foyle realised he'd rather sprung this on her. _I haven't even told her I love her, no wonder she was stunned…maybe she has a point about my rusty romancing._

He pulled her into his lap again, knocking the table and sending his plate skittering. With a serious face, Foyle said softly, "I love you, Samantha Stewart. I will do everything in my power to make you happy until my last breath. I love you so dearly that I can't see a life without you. You are the bravest, kindest, most wonderful woman…"

He paused, voice now so low that she held her breath to hear him, "You make me so truly happy. Will you have me, Samantha?"

A becoming flush crept into her cheeks and she smiled at him, "Yes, of course. I love you more than anything…_Christopher_."

Still quite unaccustomed to hearing his Christian name cascade from her lips, Foyle breathed in sharply. He kissed her firmly, breaching her lips with his tongue, inquisitive and greedy. "My darling, darling, Sam," he whispered.

His heart was beating hard and fast as she returned his vigour with an alarming eagerness.

They both got the fright of their lives when a little voice behind them said, "Where's my bedtime story then? Mummy's only gone and fallen asleep. I want my story."

Foyle laughed quietly as Sam hurriedly disentangled herself from him.

"Up you go then, little man. Have you brushed your teeth? Say goodnight to Uncle Christopher."

"G'night," James said indifferently, tugging at Sam's hand. "Why were you on 'is lap? Was 'e _re..reassurding_ you again?"

Foyle snorted as Sam steered the little boy towards the stairs.

"Yes, he _was reassuring_ me, in fact. Now do you remember where we left off in our book?"

Smiling broadly to himself Foyle went quietly to his desk and searched through the drawers slowly. When he'd found the little box he'd been looking for, he slipped it into his pocket and went to pour himself a drink. Children always were the best chaperones. He walked slowly about the room, cradling his whiskey tumbler in his hand and shivering slightly from pleasant remembrances of her on his lap and the taste of her kiss. Putting a hand into his pocket, fingering the velvet box there, he smiled thoughtfully into his whisky. _My dear Sam, I can hardly wait…_

* * *

With a gentle tap, Foyle opened Lydia's door and put his head in. The morning sun was flooding in across the floorboards and in the early light he saw how pale she still was.

"Uncle Christopher," she said smiling warmly at him. She held out a hand, "Come in." She tried to sit up, but Foyle put up a hand, "No, don't move, it's all right. Um, how are you feeling?"

"Very foolish." Lydia eyed him carefully. "Will I be charged, Uncle?"

"Well, certainly not by me." Foyle sighed, "Lydia, I've resigned from the force. I will do my best to keep you safe, but I can't promise anything."

Lydia nodded, playing with the edge of the eiderdown, "I understand." She met his eye and said with emotion, "I'm sorry."

He came to sit on the edge of the bed, and took her hand. "Lydia, I can't tell you what to do, I can only try to help. Your son is the most important thing right now, as well as getting your strength back. I will do what I can."

"I know," she sobbed quietly, "I feel I've let you all down."

"Well, you haven't. But you must focus on getting better; then we can go from there. James needs you."

Lydia nodded, wiping her face. "Thank you, you've been so kind; you always have been so kind."

He patted her hand.

With a sniff, Lydia suddenly said, "Your driver, Sam, has been brilliant with James. She's a real wonder."

Foyle's eyes crinkled into a soft smile. "She is that. I'd be lost without her."

"Be sure to hang on to her, then, Uncle Christopher."

Foyle nodded and said brightly, "I will. I've asked her to marry me."

"Oh but that's lovely!"

He gave her an upside down smile.

She put a hand on his arm, "Rosalind would be pleased to see you looking so happy again. Sam is a wonderful young lady."

Foyle regarded his God-daughter with a sideways glance, "I finally feel alive again. Not since Ros…" he cleared his throat, "I'm very…lucky to have this chance again."

Lydia grinned, "Well, she is fortunate too; you're a good man, Uncle Christopher. I wish you both all the best."

"Thank you." Nodding, Foyle stood, "Right. I'll go see about breakfast."

He went downstairs quietly, thinking about Sam. How he had come to by worthy of her love, he didn't know, but it swam within him, making him feel years younger. It was as if she were a beacon of light that had drawn him to the safe port…as if they had been searching and searching for ages, and suddenly they had found each other. _What did she say the other night? "We've been silly to ignore it…" Perhaps so. It's been there… long before I even realised it…_

Foyle scratched his chin, putting the kettle on. When had he known? A sudden image of her striding into his office and saluting passed through his mind, quickly followed by more: there she was, fresh as summer's day in her MTC uniform knocking down a suspect with a bin lid…sitting across from him at Carlo's restaurant radiant and delightful…kneeling next to him in the church on a National Day of prayer smelling of roses and distracting him from his entreaties to God to look after Andrew…Sam cooking _Coq au Vin_ without the _vin_ in his kitchen after being bombed out of her billet, making a glorious mess and looking so at home…driving him to and fro across the South Downs, her chatter and level headedness keeping the darkness at bay…

He suddenly sat down with a thump. _I've loved her…from the start._ He began to chuckle, shaking his head side to side. _Have I been so blind?_ That she was beautiful and bright was easy to see, but she was kind and patient to a fault, curious and lively too. Foyle felt his heart swell. She had kept him going, he saw that now.

A knock on the door made him jump, and he suddenly realised the time. His hand flew to his collar, undone and without a tie before he remembered he wouldn't be going back to the Police any more after today. This was it: goodbyes, good lucks and clearing his desk once and for all.

He opened the door, immediately feeling the warmth of the sun as it touched his face. He squinted and saw Sam smiling up at him from the step. Stepping back, he ushered her in, closing the door softly behind them.

She was in his arms as soon as he turned around, pressing against him, cool breath at his ear. "Good morning…_sir_."

He kissed her. "I had the most wonderful realisation about five minutes ago," he said in a husky voice, lips whispering over her cheek.

"Oh yes?"

"I realised, Miss Stewart, that I've been captivated by you since day one…"

She pulled back to look at him, "So, we've been denying ourselves this pleasure for three years? _Now you tell me_."

He squeezed her playfully.

"However," Sam added, eyes soft and adoring, "now you mention it, I've been fascinated with you just as long."

"Have you really?"

"Hmm," she hummed, lips at his ear again, "I think it was when you took me to dinner that first time…though I rather bullied you into it didn't I…"

"At Carlo's?"

"Hmm…we had the Pork Arista…" She was making an exploration of his cheek, enjoying the feel of his freshly shaved skin, easing her way to his lips.

"Oh I see…cupboard love is it?"

"Scoundrel," she giggled.

"Absolutely," Foyle grinned, gathering her to him and making much of her.

* * *

Sam had decided to resign with him. She joined him at the station in the afternoon, Lydia finally feeling more up to looking after herself and James on their own for an hour or two. Making her way around the station, she said goodbye to the friends she'd made there. She lingered over her parting with Brookie, who had been a good friend to her.

He kept gazing wistful at her, saying, "It won't be the same around here, without you and the boss, Miss. It makes me right sad to see you go."

She left Milner for last. Knocking at his open door, she grinned over at him.

"Hallo, Sam," said Milner in surprise, "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I've come to bring you my news."

"Best sit down then."

"I've resigned along with Mr Foyle, Paul."

He nodded slowly, "I thought you might." Looking at her with his head to one side, "He cares for you very much. You should have seen the way he raced out of here after the day in the woods…"

"Anyway," Milner continued, swallowing hard, "what will you do?"

"I'll find something else. Something to do with the war effort, most likely," she said.

"Yes, I suppose you will." He nodded before leaning over to touch her arm, "I am happy for you, Sam. Truly."

She smiled at him, "I'm glad, Paul. I wouldn't want to part on bad terms."

"Me either." He paused, "Sam, I'm sorry for behaving beastly. I've been a proper fool."

"If I'd been any wiser, Paul, I would have noticed sooner and not put my foot in it quite so spectacularly that day."

She winced, remembering their meeting at the hospital last year. She saw again his shattered face when she'd told him she loved Foyle, just as he'd been about to share the feelings he'd been harbouring for her.

"I'm sorry too." Though they had worked together amicably enough for the last eight or nine months, they had never discussed what had happened at the hospital. Now, however, Sam didn't want to leave things unsaid. It felt like the end of an era, and she knew she would miss her days spent around the station and Policework.

"We'll put it behind us."

"Good." She smiled warmly at him. "I should tell you that we're to be married."

Milner nodded again, "Congratulations. I wish you and Mr Foyle all the best.

She got up and came around the desk to hug him, whispering in his ear, "You are a wonderful man, Paul Milner. Don't you forget it. I know I never shall."

By five o'clock, the former DCS' office was bare and cold, boxes ready to be sent on and files all organised for his replacement. There was a lot of hand shaking, wishes of good luck and claps on shoulders. For the first time, Sam and Foyle _walked_ the route they had driven thousands of times: hand in hand, headed home.

"You all right, Christopher?" Sam asked finally.

"Feels a bit strange, but then again, I've got so much to look forward to." He squeezed her hand.

She grinned, looking happily at him.

Halfway home her stomach rumbled. "I put together a cottage pie for tonight. Lydia still doesn't eat much, but Jimmy's found his appetite again."

"You know, Sam," Foyle began, "I don't expect you to cook and clean for me, warm my slippers and all the rest — I want you to go out to do your bit, if that's what you want to do."

"I know, Christopher." She leaned in closer, "But has it occurred to you that I might enjoy doing things for you precisely because you _don't_ expect it?"

"Still…when we are married I don't expect or demand…"

"I know," she said, giving him a quick kiss and closing the matter. Cheekily she added, "And as your _wife_ I'll be able to make..._certain_ demands of my own."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

**Spring 1943**

They spent their days together as they had always done, now revelling in their new closeness and frankness. With James and Lydia around, Sam could easily come and go without comment, and she often stayed until ten o'clock or later before Foyle would walk her home. One evening at the end of April, they sat before the hearth playing chess. Foyle had taught her well, and she was beginning to catch him up.

"You're not losing on purpose are you?" she asked. Leaning over the small table, she frowned at the chess pieces.

"Certainly not," he replied, face impassive.

"Well, I wouldn't put it past you to have a load of secrets up your sleeve. You'll pounce next move, I just know it, and I won't have any inkling."

Foyle drew a hand across his forehead. Her words had triggered something that had been on his mind lately. His stomach dropped and he felt suddenly very tired. _I must tell her…_

"Speaking of secrets, Sam…"

She looked up in surprise to hear his voice so strained. They had been playing a game, yet suddenly he looked for all the world as if he were carrying a large burden on his shoulders. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his face drawn.

"What on earth is the matter, darling?" Sam felt suddenly concerned.

"Sam, I have things I must tell you. It would be unfair of me not to."

"You're worrying me now, Christopher."

"I don't mean to, really, but you see, if you decide to marry me, you need to know."

"What do you mean, _if_ I decide — you know…" Sam went suddenly pale. "You've changed your mind, haven't you?"

"No. No, of course I haven't." He caught her eye, pleading with her. "Hear me out, Sam. In all consciousness I must tell you."

"All right."

Her eyes were still frightened however, so he stood and took her hand. "Sit with me."

Leading them to the settee, he sat down with her beside him. Putting an arm around her, he began, "My past is not an easy thing, but it is a part of me. I feel it only fair that you know. I don't want any secrets between us."

Clearing his throat, he began, "Do you remember Elizabeth Lewes? Her husband is the barrister who had that American, Howard Paige, to stay."

"Yes, I remember."

"I asked her to marry me when we were both quite young. We'd gone to school together and always known each other. Her father wouldn't allow it however, as I was just a Policeman's son."

"As if that matters…"

"It _did_ then."

"Not long after, the war started. I volunteered, glad to get away from Hastings and memories of her."

Foyle took a deep breath, "It was during the war — in 1916, before I'd met Rosalind — that I was injured, though not very badly, and sent to a hospital near Brighton. I met a volunteer nurse there who was…very kind to me. I was feeling lost and she… well, sort of brought me out of myself. She was married to a man who mistreated her terribly — it was an unhappy marriage, but still no excuse for my own behaviour. He was away in London much of the time, and for weeks on end she and I were with each other. She was beautiful and clever. I adored her."

"What was her name?" Sam asked softly, eyes glued to his face, a veritable palette of mixed emotions.

"Caroline. Caroline Devereux."

Foyle took a deep breath, "She found that she was expecting." He flicked his eyes towards Sam to gauge her reaction. Seeing only a slight widening of her eyes, he continued.

"It was Caroline's decision, knowing full well what her husband was like, that for the child's sake she would stay with him. She believed there was no other way. She asked that we part and never have any further contact. I was sent back to the Front, heartbroken. I became reckless and foolhardy, but I was never injured again. Bullets came close, but never close enough."

Foyle swallowed hard and closed his eyes, remembering all too clearly what he'd often tried his best to forget.

Sam put a hand on his knee and said sadly, "Oh darling…"

He continued, "I met Rosalind when I came back and she pulled me away from the darkness that had overwhelmed me. With her, I was able to move forwards. We were incredibly happy; I thought I was being given another chance."

Foyle drew his breath in sharply, "When Andrew was four I read in the newspaper that…that Caroline had died. In an accident. _Her_ son, James, was eight at the time."

Sam's hand contracted unconsciously on his knee and Foyle nodded as if agreeing with her unspoken thought.

"Yes, the same age as Andrew when Rosalind died four years later. I thought after she died…well, I thought it was a sign. God was punishing me for having loved a married woman. I was not worthy to have loved again."

Foyle's voice became very low and soft, "It was fortunate that Andrew saved me from drawing in to myself too much, but I did become very reserved. All the women I'd ever loved had been taken from me. It was why I was so…reluctant…to love again."

Sam's eyes were bright when she said quietly, "You might say that all my near misses have shown that God thinks you _are_ worthy. He was showing you it was time?"

Foyle nodded, pulling his arm tighter around her shoulder. "Perhaps."

"So…you have another son…"

"I…can't…be sure."

"You never tried to see him…after her death?"

"No." Foyle mouthed the word, closing his eyes.

"Oh you poor man…" Sam looked at him, eyes full of sadness and brimming with unshed tears.

"I've never told anyone this." Wincing he added, "Not even Ros…" He cleared his throat hurriedly as it caught somewhere inside him. "I didn't want to make the same mistake again."

Sam was silent for a moment, slowly taking in what he had said.

He closed his eyes, "I've shocked you."

"No." She leaned in, laying her forehead against his. "It only shows me that you are a man capable of deep emotion and tenderness. And I adore you all the more for trusting me with your love. I'm only sorry you've had to suffer so much."

"Part of me thinks I'll never stop grieving, but then you are here, keeping the darkness out…"

"If I can make it easier, then I am glad. I know Rosalind was very special to you…"

"I _don't_ see you as a replacement, Sam, please know that. You are something else entirely your own, and I love you for…well, you. I'm very lucky."

She smiled softly, "As am I. I love you — so very, very much."

He kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. _Darling Sam…_

Snuggling in closer to him she whispered, "And now I know where Andrew gets his eye for the ladies."

Foyle smiled down at her, "Yes, I suppose so."

"Christopher?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for sharing this part of yourself with me. It means a lot."

He kissed her, eyes crinkling into a smile. A few tears slid past his eyelashes. He felt as if a weight had been taken off his chest.

"You'll still have me?"

"Like a shot."

She sought his lips, murmuring tenderness and reassurance as if trying to erase the dull ache emanating from his face.  
Under her ministrations he felt himself relax. It began in his shoulders, coursing down through his arms, making him feel weightless. Without realising, Foyle suddenly found himself pulling her across his lap, letting his hands dreamily trace her curves. After a moment, she surprised him by pulling away and standing up.

"Er…Sam?" He watched her undo the buttons of her cardigan. "What are you…er…?"

She smiled at him coyly, "Getting comfortable…"

Foyle could only stare, a dozen thoughts of why he should tell her to stop racing through his mind. None would catch hold, however, so he remained silent, watching her inch out of her cardigan, undo the top button of her blouse and kick off her shoes. She leaned in and touched his cheek.

"My dear man, don't look quite so shocked…" she nudged his nose with hers, teasing him.

"Sam we _can't_…call me old fashioned, but…"

"And we won't. I just want to be close with you; without all these cotton barriers getting in the way. All right?"

Foyle let out his breath. "Um…what did you…er, have in mind?" He felt in uncharted territory all of a sudden. Sam pulled pins from her hair, shaking it out with her fingers. Foyle swallowed hard: she looked so inviting.

Leaning over him again, Sam pulled up the material of her skirt until it bunched above her knees, then straddled his lap. "I can get at you better this way," she said mischievously, nibbling his bottom lip.

"My thoughts exactly," he breathed, capturing her mouth with intense fervour. "Do keep in mind there is a six year old and his mother upstairs…"

"Lucky for us, the stairs creak something rotten…"

She slipped her hands inside the top of his shirt, undoing buttons to get at his chest. His hands were in her hair, lost amongst the curls. She pressed against him, enjoying the feel of his rising chest against her own.

"I'm so glad you told me, you wonderful, darling man," she murmured, mind still on Foyle's revelation. "Let us always be honest with each other, Christopher."

"Certainly…we shall…always…Sam," Foyle replied, words lost in the smother of her kiss.

He sighed happily, becoming immersed in her intensity. He felt so much better for having told her. That there should be no parts of himself unknown to her was vital to him, and he felt closer to her for it. _She knows I come with baggage, but yet she loves me still…how am I so fortunate...such a wonderful woman…_

Their breath came more quickly now, like gasps, struggling for air through the overwhelming tide of passion. Sam seemed to sink in his arms, and the inviting weight of her and the inquisitiveness of her mouth was pushing him towards a point of no return.

"Sam…my darling…" he whispered throatily, "I'm becoming too…I need you to move, my darling…otherwise I don't know what I might do."

She stopped her exploration of the soft skin behind his ear and looked at him with a half smile. "Something jolly nice, I expect…all right, I'll move."

In doing so, she rubbed against him, causing him to groan like fury.

"Oh have I hurt you?"

"No," said Foyle rather weakly, grabbing her hips and manhandling her so that she sat beside him. He was panting, and it seemed to trigger a memory for Sam.

"Oh dash it all, I've done it again, haven't I?"

Foyle, chest still rising and falling rapidly, looked at her blankly.

Sam went red, "Um…it has been called my…hidden talent…sorry, it was an accident."

He laughed then, still trying to catch his breath, "Hidden talents indeed. Don't be sorry at all."

Sam sighed, leaning back against the settee, "You don't make it easy for a girl, looking so devilishly handsome."

"Patience, my darling."

Tracing the outline of his cheek she said, "Patience was never a virtue I had, more's the pity."

He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. "I do love you."

When they looked up from each other, the clock on the mantle piece read 2.45am. Foyle sat up in alarm, pulling his pocket watch from his waistcoat to make sure._ Hell, it's nearly three!_

"Sam…won't your landlady notice if you are missing?"

She grinned, "No, she doesn't tuck us in."

"I will walk you back…I'm sorry to have kept you so late…"

Sam slid an arm around him, "Or I can stay?"

"Well…" Foyle hesitated. _Wouldn't someone notice?_

"Let's make a night of it."

Foyle raised an eyebrow.

Sam grinned and said, "Pour us a drink and we'll tell each other all our secrets and dreams. For instance, did you know that when I was younger I dreamt of being a detective?"

"It had crossed my mind…"

Foyle stood and went to pour them each a finger of whiskey. Over his shoulder he said, "Will being an old detective's wife suffice?"

Sam giggled, "Silly."

Twitching his lips in amusement, he smiled and handed her a glass.

"Isn't this jolly?" She said, curling her legs underneath her on the settee and grinning at him.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**May 1943**

Sam was humming to herself, enjoying rifling through Foyle's bookcases. He had already made some room on one shelf for her own books. By the window, propped up on his elbows, Jimmy kept sighing heavily.

"Can't we go to the beach instead of reading _another_ book," he said, voice whinging slightly.

"That's a nice idea," Lydia said from the settee.

"Yes, all right. You'll want to see the sea again before you go back to London," Sam said. Lydia and Jimmy would be leaving at the end of the week to return to London. It was, Lydia had said, time to get back to normal and get on with things.

Looking around at Foyle, who was busy putting the finishing touches on a letter, Sam asked, "Will you come too?"

He looked up, leaning back in his chair. Screwing the lid back on his pen he chewed his lip. He thought Lydia still looked pale and unhappy. A nip of fresh air might be just the thing.

"I have a few bits to do in the town. You go and enjoy yourselves."

Sam nodded and came to stand by Jimmy at the window, "We'd better get going now before those clouds get any closer."

While Jimmy and Lydia went to find caps and scarves, Sam came over to Foyle sitting at his desk in the corner. "That your letter to Andrew?" She slid her hands around his shoulders, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "You've been ages over it."

"Yes, well…wanted to get it right. Would rather have told him in person."

"I know. You sure you won't come with us?"

"No, you go. I'll see you later." He smiled up her, eyes twinkling. His hand dipped into his pocket and he pulled out a few notes. "I know there isn't any ice cream these days, but maybe you can round up some cakes?"

"I do love you," she whispered with a grin. Giving him a squeeze, she followed the others out the door noisily.

Foyle watched them from the window, admiring Sam from his seat at the desk. He loved to see her laugh. With a sigh he turned back to the letter. Sam was right that he had been ages over it. He'd started it at least half a dozen times in the last week. Picking it up, he read over it again.

_Dear Andrew,_

_I hope this finds you well. Are you finally a bit more stationary now? The censor would probably cut it out even if you could tell me, I suppose. Quite a bit has happened since we last spoke, and I am writing to you now with news._

_I have resigned from the Police force as of last month. Too much bureaucracy. While it does feel quite strange after so many years, I am enjoying my time. Plenty of fishing. More importantly, Andrew, is that I've asked Samantha to marry me. It may come as a shock to you, and I hope you will understand. We love each other. We worked day in and day out for so long that we felt quite at home with one another. I never thought I would feel such emotions again, but I have been overwhelmed with joy. I love and admire her, and feel more than fortunate to have her love in return. I am incredibly happy. I can't imagine life without her._

_We are to be married next month. We would so like to have you there with us. It is set for June 5th — I don't suppose you can wrangle any leave?_

_Sam sends her love, as do I. Would be lovely to see you here with us next month. Look after yourself, my son._

_With love from,_  
_Dad_

Foyle folded the letter, thinking it would have to do. It wasn't very long, but he hoped it was to the point. He had a feeling it might be a bit of a shock for the young man. Realising he'd put off the letter long enough, he would just have to send it and hope for the best.

Licking the envelope, he stood and went to fetch his jacket and keys. The clouds were beginning to roll in, and he hoped the beach party wouldn't be ruined. In town he posted the letter, hesitating only for a moment. Then after picking up a paper, he went into the only remaining jewellers in Hastings.

"Ah, Mr Foyle, how nice to see you, sir," the jeweller said, coming around to shake his hand. "You'll be here for those items?"  
"I am indeed. I had a letter to say they were ready."

The jeweller reached behind the small glass counter and brought out two boxes, one small and square, the other long and thin. "It was your mother's?"

"My grandmother's actually."

"Very beautiful indeed, sir."

The two men leaned over inspecting the items in the boxes. Foyle smiled, "You've done fine work."

"Thank you, sir." Leaning in conspiratorially he added, "I hope madam enjoys it."

Foyle paid, shook the man's hand, and was headed back towards Steep Lane just as a few drops of rain began to spit.  
The others weren't back yet, so he sat heavily in his chair, unfolding his paper. _A few minutes peace and quiet wouldn't go amiss…_

Before he knew it, he was nodding off, tired out from the stress of writing to his son. It shouldn't be stressful, but this was a particularly difficult subject. Sam had always been a sensitive spot between them. Perfectly understandable of course…He woke when the front door banged, jumping slightly.

He saw the lounge door open, and Sam peeking around the door, "Sorry, did we wake you?"

Foyle smiled at her, blinking. He moved his paper where it had fallen across his lap.

"No, don't get up," Sam said. They heard footsteps tramping up the stairs, and Sam gently closed the door of the lounge behind her. She came towards him, gazing softly at him.

He smiled up at her as she perched herself on the the arm of his chair.

"You looked so peaceful there for a moment. Pleasant dreams?"

"I must have been dreaming of you."

"Charmer," she grinned, giving him a poke.

Foyle leaned up and whispered in her ear, "I've got something for you."

"Have you?"

Foyle reached his hand to the side table. Where Rosalind's picture had once stood, there were now the two boxes. He picked the smallest one first and held it out to Sam.

"Oh!" Sam said with delight, recognising the box. "They've finished resizing it! I thought it would never be ready."

Foyle chuckled, "I'm just pleased you like it."

"I _love_ it, and I am glad I finally get to wear it."

She plucked the ring from the box, smiling broadly.

"Wait, that's my job," Foyle said.

He took the ring from her and slipped it on to the third finger of her left hand. It was a simple ring —silver with a very small stone set in the middle. It had belonged to Foyle's grandmother — his father's mother, who had been a farmer's wife with hands quite a bit larger than Sam's. He had shown it to her the night he had asked her to marry him, explaining he would have it resized and cleaned up for her.

Foyle had also explained that this was _not_ the one he had given Rosalind. The one he had given her had been his mother's and was now meant for Andrew, when the time came. Sam had examined the silver ring from every angle with little murmurs of delight.

"Even though you won't have it for a bit, my promise is every bit as true: I will love you until my last breath, Samantha. You are everything to me."

Sam had throw her arms around his neck, tears of happiness in her eyes.

Now, finally, Sam had her ring, and it wouldn't be long before she had another to keep it company on her left hand.

"Looks nice," he commented, holding her hand up to the light.

"It's _beautiful_. Oh thank you, Christopher." She leaned in to kiss him.

"And that's not all," he said, reaching towards the side table again. "This really should be given to you later, just before the wedding, but…well, there's no reason to wait with it."

"What can it be?" Sam asked playfully, eyeing the thin box. "It's quite heavy…"

"A gift from me to you, my darling."

He eyed her somewhat anxiously as she opened the box. Sam gasped and looked up at him with eyes wide. Inside the box, wrapped in paper were two silver cheese knives. On the handles, engraved in beautiful script were the letters 'C' and 'S' intertwined. Foyle put his arm around her waist, sitting up in his chair.

"I know it isn't diamonds or a necklace…something more traditional, but…"

Sam cut him off, "They are brilliant. Oh _Christopher_, you know me so well." Her eyes filled with tears and she smiled at him, "They will be so much more _useful_ than diamonds, and every time I use them I will think of you."

Foyle smiled broadly, relieved that she liked them.

"So beautiful too. However did you find them?"

"Well…n-not a detective for nothing…"

Sam kissed him, "You spoil me! Thank you so much my darling man."

He grinned against her lips, "You deserve it."

Sam moved on to his knee, nestling against his shoulder, admiring her ring and the silver knives with a happy sigh.

Foyle brought his lips to her ear, "Beautiful woman deserves beautiful things."

He kissed her temple, lingering there, breathing her in.

"Oh, I hope the next few weeks _fly_ by," Sam said happily, "I can't wait to be married."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

**May 1945**

Setting down her cutlery, Sam pushed her empty plate away. There was a silence between them now as she paused in her story, allowing Andrew to take in what she had said. She thought his face seemed overwhelmed with guilt and shame. It settled on him like a weight. He drew a hand across his face, reminding her of his father. He had wanted to know their story, and she had told it truthfully. It had, perhaps, shaken him or the ideas he had of his father. _Maybe he does not realise the capacity of Christopher's ability to love? Things were so different after Rosalind died…I've shocked him…_

The proprietor of the inn broke their small silence, swooping in to clear away dishes.

"Shall I bring a pot of tea?" he asked, flicking away a few crumbs. "The missus has my dinner on the table, but you two can stay here as long as you like. Just put your head through the door if you need anything."

He motioned with a nick of his head to a low door behind the bar, presumably leading into their living quarters. They were the only customers and were likely to be until the evening.

Andrew said, "I'll pay now; leave you in peace to have your meal."

He stood to follow the proprietor, and Sam had the distinct feeling that he needed to put some space between them for a moment. A large mirror hung over the mantle-piece opposite their table, and she was able to watch him without turning her head. She saw him lean in to whisper conspiratorially with the man, who nodded and tapped his nose again. She heard him say, "It will come, my lad, you'll see. These things take time."

Apparently the man was still under the impression that they were a young married couple reunited, becoming reacquainted once more. Sam watched as he picked up a small tumbler, barely covering the bottom of the glass with an amber liquid, handing it to Andrew. Andrew tossed it back before shooting a nervous glance behind him in case she had seen him. He paid the bill, shook the man's hand, and came to sit down.

"He's going to bring us a pot of tea before he goes for his meal."

"How kind." She paused, searching his face. He had rearranged his features so she could no longer read the emotions there. "Thank you for lunch."

Andrew smiled and fumbled with his cigarette case. She noticed his hands trembling ever so slightly. _Poor man is wound up like a spring…_ He lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. Sam impulsively put out her hand towards him across the table.

"Is it so bad?" she said softly.

Taking her hand lightly in his own, he said slowly, "Dad wrote a most …. endearing… letter to me before you were married. I couldn't, or perhaps more accurately, I didn't want to, understand the breadth of his love for you. I felt only angry and betrayed. Stupid of me."

"I can't make it any easier for you, Andrew. It is what it is. I believe our love would have endured even if I had stayed away or been married off to someone else. It is the fire that burns within me, keeping me going from one day to the next."

She paused, eyeing him carefully, "I don't think we ever _stop_ loving people either, Andrew. I know your father still loves Rosalind; but he loves me too. I think we can move on while still remembering fondly how we felt or the time we spent together with those we loved. It doesn't make the past any less true."

Andrew bit his lip to stop it trembling, the intensity of her words washing over him.

Sam squeezed his hand. Taking a deep breath, Andrew said, "Yours is a love unlike any other I've seen or known myself, Sam. I see that now. In a way, when I would remember you, I could not help but picture Dad too. It was as if you always went hand in hand. Even before… I...I can't explain it."

He shook his head and Sam squeezed his hand again. Andrew continued, somewhat shakily, "I understand now, Sam. And I'm truly sorry for the hurt I caused."

The proprietor quietly set down a tray of tea things and made his exit, smiling kindly down at Sam. _He probably thinks I've got my hands full, _she thought_; maybe I do. Andrew must come to forgive himself…we have…_

"Shall I pour?"

Andrew nodded, releasing her hand.

"You must stop, Andrew. Forgive yourself, because we certainly have. It is in the past. What is important now is the future."

She handed him a cup.

He nodded, eyes unconsciously drawn to her middle. "The future…"

With a sigh he added, "I don't know what I'll do now, Sam. Everything has changed."

"You were always writing, I seem to remember? Maybe you can go back up to Oxford?"

Andrew shrugged, "I don't know. After years of being told what to do, I've suddenly got to decide for myself. It's both freeing and overwhelming…"

"Well, you haven't got to decide this minute," Sam said sensibly.

Watching him a moment, Sam poured herself a cup of tea and set the pot back on the tray. _Time to change the subject…_

"_He_ thinks it will be a girl."

Andrew looked up, startled from his thoughts. "Oh?"

"Would you like a sister?"

Andrew grinned suddenly. It sounded rather like something a mother _would_ ask. A light came back into his eyes, shining and dancing. "I think a sister would be lovely, _Mother_."

Sam grinned, "Imp…I'll always be Sam to you."

"Mother Sam?"

Sam giggled at him from behind her hand.

"Mother Sam, with her pram, strolled down the pretty lane.  
A man on her arm, so full of charm, made all other men feel insane."

"Is that the affect I have on men? Oh dear." Sam said, stifling a giggle. "You always did have a way with words..."

"Oh I expect every man who sees you with Dad will feel jealous that he hooked the prettiest girl in England."

"Really, Andrew." She rolled her eyes. _He hasn't lost his touch, at least._ She was glad to see some of his old self coming through.

"I expect fishing terms from your father, but from _you_ as well…." she shook her head, eyeing him playfully.

"Never mind." He grinned at her over his tea cup. "So, was that the end of your story?"

Sam paused, taking a sip of her tea. "Well…"

"Yes?"

"I suppose I can skim over the next few events…bring you up to date, as it were."

Andrew nodded, putting his head to one side. "I should like to know. We've come this far…"

Sam regarded him, thinking that she would certainly skim and not go into details. _Don't want to shock him any further…_ No, the details were just for her to remember and enjoy. She gave a sudden smile, mind on the happy memories of that first year together with Christopher as his wife.

"All right…pour another cup and I'll tell you…"


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Lucky number 13 - and so, it begins! While Sam will be sparing Andrew, never fear, **we** will get the juicy insights. Thank you to those who have written reviews. It really is lovely to know folks are enjoying this rambling tale.

* * *

Chapter 13

**June 1943**

"I know just the ticket, my dear fellow," Aubrey thundered down the telephone, "just the ticket."

"Oh yes?" Foyle said, slightly unsure.

"I know a chap who runs a farm; he's just had some Land Girls leave, both married at the same time, would you believe, and he's got a sort of cottage available."

"When you say a sort of cottage…"

Foyle stood in the hall, rubbing his forehead and holding the receiver at a slight distance from his ear. The telephone was only ever used for wedding plans these days it seemed. Sam wanted to keep it a simple affair, seeing there was a war on, but there did still seem to be a lot of planning. They had asked Uncle Aubrey to officiate at the wedding, thinking it better to make an executive decision rather than have Sam's family of clergymen squabbling. The service would be at Aubrey's very own St. Mary's in Hampshire. Foyle was trying to book somewhere in Aubrey's village for a day or two after the wedding, knowing how much Sam liked the area, but everything seemed to be full. Not much planning had been left up to him, but the one thing that he was responsible for, he hadn't been able to fix. It was Aubrey who had come to the rescue.

"Yes, it's just the thing for you two," Aubrey continued, "it's by the river, away from the main house. You can go up to the house for your dinners if you want, Tommy's wife won't mind. Samantha will be through any rations you bring with you within a day anyway."

Foyle had to smile at her uncle's recollection of Sam's appetite. "Well, as long as it isn't some sort of shed, I think we can manage for a few nights."

"Jolly good, I'll let Tommy know." Aubrey rung off leaving Foyle staring at the receiver wondering if he'd just made a muddle of things.

"Sam?" he called through the lounge. He found her writing a list at the dining table. "Darling, I've just agreed to let your Uncle Aubrey hire a cottage on a farm for our first few nights after the wedding. I rather think I'd better telephone him back…I don't want to be accused of being unromantic again if it turns out to be an old shed."

She poked him playfully, "Don't be silly. What cottage?"

"Er, it belongs to a farmer called Tommy?"

"Oh! Tommy Bright, ooh, yes he's got a lovely farm just on the edge of Uncle's village. I used to play there during the Easter holidays…"

"Um, right, but is it actually a cottage? I don't _really_ want our first night together as man and wife to be in a tractor's shed…"

Sam grinned mischievously at him, "It could be in a field for all I care, as long as you are with me."

"Yes, but that's not the point…" he broke off as she leaned over to kiss him firmly.

"It will be fine," she said, assuring him with another grin.

They took the train down to Lyminster a day before the wedding, arriving in time for lunch at the Vicarage. Foyle would be leaving Sam with her parents, and he would continue on to Aubrey's to stay there for the night. Sitting down to lunch, Foyle felt slightly nervous, as he wasn't entirely sure Rev. Stewart had forgiven him. The man brooded silently at the end of the table until Mrs Stewart gave him a slight kick and a glare. Foyle nearly laughed out loud as the look reminded him so much of Sam. At least Mrs Stewart was on their side.

After lunch, Sam walked with him to the bus stop down the lane. Linking her arm through his, she said, "This time tomorrow, we'll be married."

Foyle smiled to hear her enthusiasm. "I can't wait."

"You can't wait for it to all be over, you mean," she said, laughing.

"Well, er…you know me…" he said feebly.

"I do, and I love you, and tomorrow will be fine."

"Yes..," Foyle cleared his throat and picked up his case. "Look, here's the bus."

"Don't have too much of Uncle Aubrey's greengage wine."

"I won't."

"I'll be keeping you close, Christopher Foyle," she said, tapping her chest. "See you tomorrow."

With a quick glance around them, Foyle leaned in and gave her a kiss, "Until tomorrow, my darling."

He swung round on his heel and boarded the bus. He knew Sam would wait until it was out of sight. He chewed his lip to keep from giving himself away. He would miss her, and if truth be told he was missing Andrew very much. He could have used some moral support. With a wave, he was off, the bus jostling down the lane.

Foyle had written to Andrew about five weeks before, explaining his resignation from the Police force and his intention to marry Sam. The letter had taken him ages to write, but he thought he had made his position clear. _So why haven't I heard from him?_ Foyle understood that it would be difficult to get back for the wedding if Andrew was posted overseas, but a letter surely…or a telegram… _Unless…?_

Taking a deep breath, Foyle tried to calm and reason out his thoughts. He stared out of the bus window, a forefinger resting on his top lip. _How can I not worry for him?_ It was true, however, that letters might take twice as long to reach overseas postings. There was a war on, after all. It might not even reach him…wherever he was. _Of course he might be angry with me_, Foyle thought uneasily. There was that possibility.

He shook himself, determined not to dwell. This should be a happy time, and he was a lucky man to be given this chance of love again. Especially with one so wonderful as Samantha Stewart. The thought of her made his face break into a broad smile. He rubbed his cheek, smiling back at his reflection in the window. _Lucky man indeed…_

So, it was with some overshadowing worry for his son's safety that Foyle made his promises to Sam. Uncle Aubrey's church was a lovely setting for the day, and Sam's family, mostly consisting of ordained uncles and cousins, were a welcoming and warm bunch. It was very moving, and he had to keep clearing his throat of emotion. The realisation that he was marrying _Samantha_ kept hitting him. He was glad, however, that the spectacle was over. Foyle just wanted to be with his lovely new wife, away from curious eyes and stifling propriety. After years of working with one another, months of good behaviour and duty, he wanted to get on with making a life together as man and wife.

He endured the late luncheon speeches and jokes with good grace and smiles, dutifully kissed the mother of the bride and shook hands with Rev. Stewart; he allowed himself to be clapped on the back by the many cousins and uncles, all rather too fond of the wine; he even made a charming, albeit short, thank you speech himself. Finally, as they walked out of the inn towards the road where Farmer Bright was waiting with his trap, he pressed his lips to Sam's ear and whispered, "It's our day, and I feel I've hardly seen you. You look gorgeous by the way."

"You've been marvellous. It's been such a lovely day... and it isn't over yet…" She grinned at him.

They turned to wave at the wedding party before greeting Farmer Bright. His trap had been covered in flowers for the occasion and looked beautiful. It was pulled by his sleek, black horse, Captain. Sam quite forgot Foyle for a moment when she saw the old horse, recognising him from her girlhood.

"Doesn't he look fine?" She stroked the horse's dark neck and crooned up at him. As he watched, Foyle felt his heart swell with love for this radiant young woman.

They bundled into the trap and waved a last frantic goodbye before bumping off down the road. Foyle, pressed against Sam on the narrow seat, sighed, "Darling, Sam…"

Sam squeezed his hand, eyes becoming moist with tears of joy. A smile broke across her features, causing the tears to slip past her lids. Foyle stroked a few away with his thumb, "You have made me the happiest man on earth, my darling."

The emotions of the day brimmed over in her, and Foyle pulled her to him, murmuring love in her ear. When the lane narrowed and became rocky, Sam straightened, "Have you got a hanky? We're nearly there."

He handed her the one from his pocket and she began to laugh. "Why Christopher! You are sentimental, aren't you?"

It was the handkerchief marked and stained from the teapot incident nearly two years ago. He grinned at her. Sam dabbed at her eyes, smiling now.

The evening was growing long when they arrived at the farm. Mrs Bright came out from the stone farmhouse, wiping her hands on her apron and gave Sam a peck on the cheek.

"How lovely to see you again, my dear, and married too. Now, we've got the cottage all ready for you, nice and snug. And this is Mr Foyle? How do you do." Mrs Bright shook hands eagerly, eyeing him with open curiosity.

The Brights walked them down to the cottage, which was half secluded by a copse of trees. Foyle began to relax when he saw it wasn't just a glorified shed. Inside it was, as Mrs Bright had indicated, quite snug. While it was one large room, it was furnished simply and cosily. The two single beds had been pushed together and made up with an intricate quilt that Foyle suspected had been made by Mrs Bright. There were flowers on every surface and Foyle saw how pleased Sam was with it.

"Oh you are kind, Mrs Bright. How lovely!"

Mrs Bright beamed before taking them through, showing them where things were while Farmer Bright brought the bags. Before Foyle knew it, they had said their goodbyes and he was alone, at last, with Sam. He slipped off his morning coat and put it with the top hat and gloves he'd already set down on a chair.

_Finally…_

With a contented sigh he turned to pull her into an embrace, lips on her neck. "Well, Mrs Foyle, cup of tea first or are you hungry again…?"

"Silly man," she chided softly, throwing back her head to allow him in closer. She breathed him in deeply, her hands in amongst the curls at the nape of his neck. "I want nothing but you."

"Oh w-well…in that case…"

He captured her lips, running his tongue along her bottom lip. "I shall make a feast of you..."

"Sounds marvellous," she breathed.

Taking her hand, Foyle led her to the bed. In the intervening months between engagement and the wedding they had been busy with helping Lydia and James get back on their feet and with returning to London. Their presence in Foyle's house had allowed he and Sam more freedom than they would normally have had. Lydia and James had left a few weeks before the wedding and Foyle had been quite firm about walking Sam home each night. Her eagerness drew at his reserve, but he was resolute about it. Now that they were here as man and wife, Foyle felt suddenly shy.

He sat beside her and stroked the back of her hand. Speaking softly he said, "Do you know, Sam, I never thought I would ever love again. You've brought out so much in me that I had buried. I am so glad that I've had you to stand by me these past years."

She regarded him for a moment, smiling sweetly. "I never knew what love felt like before I met you. I never knew I had the capacity to feel like I do. I feel I might burst."

He touched her cheek, "So do I. It makes me want to grin all the time."

"Well, do. It makes you look rather fetching and roguish."

Facing him she added, "I love you, Christopher, so very much." She leaned in to kiss him again, and Foyle pulled her down beside him.

Though Foyle had wanted nothing more than this moment for months, he found he was feeling nervous and expectant. His stomach kept doing somersaults, leaving him slightly breathless. He wanted her so much that it was making him shake. He decided to be honest with her in case she wondered why he was hesitant.

"Even though I've been married before, Sam, _this_," he motioned vaguely in the air with his hand, "is new. A brand new start with _you_. You've made me quite lightheaded. And as it is, I'm er, rather out of practise."

"Well, it's like riding a bicycle, apparently — it all comes back…" Sam began.

Foyle spluttered, "Where on _earth_ did you hear that?"

Sam flushed and muttered something.

Letting his hands wander down to her waist, he pulled her to him, "You'll have to speak up, my dear," he said with a twitch of his lips.

"I said," Sam began, flushing another shade deeper, "my mother told me."

Foyle laughed, "Did she now?" He suddenly saw Mrs Stewart in a new light.

"Don't laugh, I didn't ask loads of questions if that's what you're thinking. She just…told me…things. It was very awkward." She looked suddenly a bit put out.

Chuckling, Foyle kissed her, "Poor love, it must have been very trying for you."

"Well, I didn't think vicar's wives spoke of such things, really, Christopher, I nearly died of embarrassment. I couldn't find a way to stop her."

"She was only trying to help, darling."

"Yes, well," Sam huffed, "it's not like I didn't know."

Foyle froze, a sudden unpleasant thought crossing his mind. He raised an eyebrow, biting his lip.

"Sam, I won't ask…"

"_Christopher_." Sam gave him a push, "Not like _that_. Books and things..."

"No? Because I wondered, um, all those years ago…er, when Andrew stayed with you…?"

Sam sat up, looking at him indignantly, "Really…"

He sat up too, saying carefully, "Sam…"

"Is that what you think?" She bit her lip, "Christopher, we've shared all our secrets. I've told you _everything_."

"I'm not accusing you. I just know him, and by God, Sam, if you looked anything as sweet and lovely as you do now, I know I would have had a hard time stopping myself. It doesn't matter either way." He took her hand and kissed it, eyeing her to see if he had been forgiven.

"Well, we behaved…fairly well. If anything, I was to blame for letting him stay."

"Doesn't matter, Sam, really. It was all long ago."

"But I don't want you to think that I would just…"

He put his arm around her, "I don't, all right?"

They sat quietly for a moment. Foyle began to undo his collar. _Damn it all, man, what's the matter with you? Talking about Andrew at a moment like this and asking stupid questions…You silly fool._

He sighed softly, "Sorry, Sam. Just feeling a bit…" He broke off, fiddling with his cufflinks.

Sam put a hand on his, "Let me help you."

She removed the cufflinks from his shirt carefully, setting them on the bedside table. Next, she undid his waistcoat and slipped her hands inside, clasping his braces and pulling him to her.

Catching her eye, he saw he was forgiven. She whispered, "I understand, but you mustn't think you are at a disadvantage. We're in this together."

"Agreed."

"I belong to _you_, Christopher. Only you. Forever and always."

His lips turned downwards in emotion, "We belong to each other."

Foyle felt his eyes pricking sharply and his heart began to race. He wondered if she could feel it pounding. She was unfastening the buttons of his shirt now, her lips at his exposed neck. Foyle felt unable to move from the sensations her lips created.

"Darling, Sam," he murmured.

Her lips at his ear made his breath quicken and his hands were suddenly at her dress. After two attempts he grumbled, "How do you get the ruddy thing off?"

She laughed softly and obliged him, standing back and stepping free of the dress in one graceful move.

He sat up and eyed her, adoring her loveliness and drinking in the view of her like a man with an unquenchable thirst. He slipped out of his striped trousers and put an arm around her waist. "You are the most beautiful creature…" he whispered, kissing her belly and working his way up. "I'm the luckiest man on earth…"

The light of evening was winking out, leaving the room in a soft grey, long shadows disappearing into corners. They were out of their clothes now and curled together on the quilt, exploring each other slowly and tenderly. All shyness was gone, replaced now by curious, aching hunger. Foyle had to admit Mrs Stewart had a point; the art of loving was coming back to him with a force unlike he had previously experienced.

He seemed to sink into the softness of his wife, feeling himself gathered up in her arms. _I feel safe here...I'm home... _He both wanted to go slow, and to capture Sam for his own. Inside of him there was a desire to conquer her; to prove himself. He was fighting a battle within, but in the end Sam made it easy for him.

Her hunger initially exceeded his own, and he found he was pleasantly surprised that she outmaneuvered him at points. By doing so, she assuaged any reservations, and he felt himself relax and slip into his new role easily. They came together like waves crashing against each other, washing over one another and possessing the other perfectly. With heedless abandon they found themselves savouring the culmination of years of denial, patience, and abiding love.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

**June 1943**

Sam rolled over, waking with a jump as she heard a muffled snore beside her. Realising where she was, and who was beside her, she smiled into the pillow. Wondering what time it was, she sat up. Her throat was parched from their earlier exertions and her responses to his love making. She shivered in pleasant remembrance. Slipping quietly from the bed she went into the small, basic bathroom. The trees outside the cottage were creaking in the wind and she felt a draught come across the floor. She found a glass and leaned against the sink, sipping the water.

Thinking back to only hours before, she smiled again. _Did we really do all that? Did I really cry his name…_

Standing here naked in the night air, she felt a sudden rush of satisfaction and self-pride. Her mother had warned her, in a bid to be helpful, that things never went smoothly at first, that it all took time and eventually she would come to like the necessities of married life. Well, for once, her mother was wrong, Sam decided happily, because it had been everything and more than she had imagined. The feel of him against her was so comforting that the nerves that she had begun with slipped easily away.

Sam had felt his need to make her his own coursing through his quivering muscles. The rumble of power behind this need to dominate didn't frighten her because she understood it. She wasn't sure how, but she understood that he wanted to prove himself. She gave herself, certainly, but she had lost nothing in the process.

Foyle had been gentle as well as powerful; susceptible and equally masterful. He had left no stone unturned and yet, he had not touched that part inside that was her being, rather only scratched the surface. It made her long and ache unlike anything before. There was more to be discovered and shared. He had such strength, but her own ministrations left him like a child, grateful and needy. This strange new power over him surprised her, and it made her only want to give all of herself to him immediately. To see his vulnerable face above her, well, it was only natural to acquiesce. It made some primal part inside her tremble. It was this mixing of vulnerabilities that brought her closer to him than ever before.

All at once, Sam understood what it meant to love this man.

She shivered, realising she had been standing in the cold dreaming away. Feet already frozen, she came quickly back to bed after gulping the rest of the water, sliding in next to her husband. She grinned again at the thought…_My husband, Christopher Foyle!_

Putting her cold feet next to his legs, she snuggled into him. He awoke with a groan, "B-blocks of ice…"

She giggled and moved her feet. "Sorry, darling, did I wake you?"

There was a mischievous edge to her voice and Foyle cracked one eye open. "T-those your feet then?"

He reached down between them searching for the icy culprits. "Hell of a way to wake a man…" he grumbled, "Come here with them."

Grabbing her right foot, he pulled, making her yelp as she was suddenly facing the wrong way.

He began to rub her feet gently, "Wouldn't believe it's summer…"

His eyes were still closed, and Sam lay back to admire him, from the long, fanning eyelashes to his soft wisps of hair. In this region of half sleep his face was boyish and about his lips played a contented smile. She relaxed into his hands, enjoying the feel of his touch and how it sent pleasant shivers down her spine.

Foyle made sure her feet were warm before moving his hands upwards, massaging her calves. Giving a soft hum of contentment, Sam closed her eyes. He took his time and she had nearly fallen back to sleep when a jolt of pleasure rocketed through her. He had continued upwards, but with his lips.

"Oh Christopher," she murmured, "am I dreaming?" Her fingers were in his hair, grasping at his curls. She wanted him _there_ with his lips…

"No, my darling, you aren't dreaming…" he inched higher, applying his tongue expertly. Sam's eyes flew open.

Though there were both wide awake now, their movements were dreamlike and Sam saw the absorption on Foyle's face. He was lost in her, heedlessly immersed, and it thrilled her.

"You magnificent man," she whispered. She would do anything for him; her love and admiration were overflowing. That she could make this wonderful, graceful, stalwart man open up and allow his vulnerabilities to play across his face was a privilege. She felt both proud and grateful.

"I am only so because of you. I love you always, Sam," he said, showing her the strength behind his promise with every fibre of himself.

Sam felt the subtle urgency of their joining and for a moment drifted outside herself. _Surely this is a dream…_ She sensed he too was beyond himself, and held on to him tightly in the fear he might slip away.

"I'm with you," he breathed, as if reading her mind. They rose and fell simultaneously as if it were a dance they had rehearsed for years. Together they reached the crescendo, hearts racing each other to the finish.

They fell asleep afterwards, tumbling into each other's arms, until the early morning. The soft light was already streaming in when a horrendous crowing sounded underneath the window, breaking the still morning with the banshee cry. Foyle jolted up in bed, Sam sliding away from her perch on his chest. With a grunt he leapt out of bed, stark naked and staring around the room, breathing heavily.

"What _are_ you doing?" Sam said grumpily, put out at having been so rudely displaced from his warm and comforting form.

"What was that?" He turned round to look at her, "it sounded worse than an air raid siren."

Sam snorted, "It was a rooster, _Detective_…being cock of the walk."

"That's former Detective, thank you." He smirked, "I forgot you were quite the country girl. I've never heard a rooster so close."

"He's probably threatened by having another male nearby." Sam eyed Foyle's bare frame mischievously, "As he should. He's not the only…erm…_cockerel_ about…"

With a low growl, Foyle jumped back into bed beside her, ravishing her lips with kisses.

"Good morning, darling wife."

Sam grinned up at him, "Awake are we, husband?"

In answer he pressed against her, "Most certainly…"

She slung an arm around his neck and pulled him closer. Having not seen him quite so ebullient before, it thrilled her all the more. She gasped in delight and arched her back as he pressed against her again.

"Cockerel eh?" he rumbled playfully in her ear.

The sun was properly up when Sam put her foot down: "I'm _starving_. I won't be any more use to you unless I'm fed."

"Then madam shall be fed and watered as quickly as possible."

Foyle ducked as she threw a pillow at him.

In the tiny cupboard, as Mrs Bright had indicated the previous night, he found some things for a cold breakfast and he put it together for them on a tray. There was also a small petroleum stove which he lighted, boiling a kettle for tea.

"We'll get more things from the farm later, and have dinner there when the workers are in."

"Sounds lovely. Shall we take a walk? I can show you where I used to play when I was younger."

"Yes, I'd like to see." He handed her a cup of tea.

Foyle stared openly at her, enjoying the tussled, blond curls falling across her bare breasts and basking in the glow that seemed to radiate from her.

"You'll put me off my breakfast in a minute," she warned with a half smile.

"You're ever so lovely, Mrs Foyle," he said huskily.

She looked up, her face both pleased and frustrated. "If I could forgo food and a cup of tea, darling, I would. But as it is…"

He grinned. "You eat, and I'll have a wash and a shave." He kissed her jam smeared lips, and left her to it.

Sam gazed after him, suddenly realising there was more to sustenance than food alone. _I can't seem to stop wanting to be near him._

Truth be told, she couldn't imagine how she had lived without being in his arms. Instead of fulfilling a hunger, he had only created one. It wasn't long before she'd finished her meal and come to seek him out.

Foyle was standing awkwardly before the cracked mirror, trying to find a good angle to see himself and have a decent shave.

"You look like Father Christmas," she said, leaning against the door frame.

"Yes, and if you aren't careful, I'll put you across my knee…"

She watched him, admiring his attention to detail even under the scrutiny of her gaze. He scraped away at his face expertly, wiping the lather from his blade with a habitual flick on a towel. There was a beauty in his movements. _As with everything he does…utterly engaging…_

When he finished, he caught her eye in the mirror, giving her a smile that melted her resolve to get dressed. Sam came to put her arms around him, "You'll be tired of me watching you soon…but I just can't help it. You're so…_captivating_…"

Foyle chuckled, "Sweet wife…" His eyes twinkled a lovely blue and she could see he was pleased. She smiled at him and put a hand to his face. "No cuts…"

"Steady hand," he replied, holding out his right hand in evidence. Sam watched as after a moment he let the hand rest on her chest over her heart. She put her own hand over his.

"I feel I might burst with loving you."

Twitching his lips, he said, "It would make an awful mess if you did…" The corners of his eyes crinkled, sending lines cascading outwards that she longed to trace.

She pursed her lips which he immediately kissed. The vigour of his kiss made her lean back against the sink, the cold porcelain sending shivers along her skin.

Foyle murmured throatily, "What, um, about that walk…"

She was already nibbling at his ear, savouring the soft, fresh feel of his cheek, and breathing in his aftershave. "Later…" 

* * *

A/N: And _if _ we're counting...4


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

**June 1943**

Following Sam through the copse of trees towards the squat and sturdy farmhouse, Foyle reached for her hand. It was smooth and cool under his touch and he felt his fingertips tingle. "I do love my new fishing box, Sam. I can't wait to use it."

She smiled at him, looking pleased. Sam had given him his wedding present, having suddenly remembered it when they unpacked the cases. It was a lovely leather bound box for his handmade flies. It would fit perfectly with his other kit. He gave her hand a squeeze.

Sam had changed into a new frock, green with a floral pattern that tapered down in a delightful manner. _She looks like a fresh spring day_, he thought rather fancifully. He grinned at her and slipped his arm around her waist.

"You're making me feel rather poetic," he murmured, twitching his lips into a soft smile.

"Is it a Foyle trait to a write reams for their best girl?"

Foyle laughed, "I've not written a word in my life, so no…but you do inspire such pretty thoughts, my darling."

Sam blushed a soft pink and gave him a squeeze.

They went around to the back of the farmhouse, Sam leading the way towards the kitchen door. It was open at the top, letting out a savoury smell of pastry and meat.

"Hallo the house!" Sam called through the opening.

There was a soft clatter, and Mrs Bright called over her shoulder, "Come my dears, do come in."

Elbow deep in flour and looking utterly at home in the big kitchen, Mrs Bright eyed them both openly with a twinkling eye.

"The cottage all right for you?"

"It's splendid, Mrs Bright! Just perfect." Sam dipped a finger into a bowl, tasting, and approving of the mixture.

"Might we have our dinner with you and the workers, Mrs Bright," Foyle said, thinking it best to organise something before Sam taste tested the entire kitchen.

Mrs Bright grinned suddenly and began dusting her hands on her apron. "Well, Mr Foyle, I hope you don't mind, but I thought you two might like a picnic, seeing it's nice weather and all. I've got a meat pie for you, cheese and pickled ham, carrots, a bit of cake…" she produced an enormous picnic hamper from the pantry, "oh yes, and a few bottles of ginger beer. Mr Bright has a rug that will do, and Miss Sam — I mean, Mrs Foyle, knows where to go."

Sam gave a cry of delight and came to stand beside Mrs Bright to paw through the hamper. "Oh you are a peach, Mrs Bright, how lovely!" Her eyes went wide, "Oh Christopher, _look_…cake _and_ blackberries."

"Yes, they are early this year." Mrs Bright began to do up the buckles to secure the hamper. Tapping the top she added, "Benefit of being on a farm. Don't suppose you see much in the city."

Foyle chuckled and shook his head. "You're too kind, Mrs Bright. Very thoughtful of you, and I can assure you it will be enjoyed."

Mrs Bright beamed at him. "Well, you two go off and enjoy yourselves. Supper isn't until 8 tonight as the men want to make use of the light. They are in the top pasture, Sam, so be mindful of the tractor."

"We'll go to the river, I think, Mrs Bright. It will be cooler there."

Foyle took the rather heavy load of food and picnic bits, and nodded at Mrs Bright, "Until later."

Sam followed him, a slight spring in her step. "Oh what fun!"

"The food, having a picnic, or being married?" he teased.

"All three!"

Sam took them down a small path, past the cottage, through a small field with a few sheep, and along a fence.

"Are we nearly there, my dear? It's just this is rather, er, cumbersome."

"Almost there," she replied brightly.

Foyle rolled his eyes. He felt a bead of sweat trickling down his back under his shirt and padded waistcoat. Cursing the tie that was digging into his neck, he tramped after Sam. At last they came to a grassy bank on the edge of the river. Foyle set down the bits and piece gratefully. Taking off his old green trilby that Sam insisted he bring, he mopped his forehead with a hanky.

"I haven't had so much exercise in years. You trying to kill me?"

"It wasn't that far, really, Christopher."

"I don't mean just the walk," he said, shooting her a quick grin.

"Ah." Sam grinned back. "Right, first thing's first…" She set to attacking the buckles of the picnic hamper.

A few minutes later she turned in surprise as she heard a splash, gaping as she watched her husband's head rise from under the water of the river.

"What _are_ you doing? What about lunch?"

"Needed to cool down. Too hot."

She looked around them, before saying incredulously, "Are you _dressed_?"

"Why don't you come in and find out…" he ducked in the water again, leaving Sam still staring.

Popping a blackberry in her mouth, Sam went to the river's edge, watching the surface of the water. When Foyle came up again, she put her hands on her hips. "Are you ever coming out? I'm starving."

"I'm coming now." He stood up easily in the shallows near the bank, water streaming off his torso. The sunlight caught the droplets and they seemed to sparkle as he trudged up the bank.

Sam uttered a soft, "oh!" before a smile crept into her face.

"The water's lovely, you should have a dip. Best before you eat, you know." He turned from where his clothes lay on the grass, feeling her eyes on him.

"Someone might come."

"There's only the cows here, my dear, and you'll be under the water."

"Only if you come back in with me."

He looked at her squarely from where he squatted easily on his haunches.

"You won't drown me for interrupting your feast?"

Sam giggled, halfway out of her new dress already. "We should have thought to bring something to dry off with."

"The sun is quite strong."

Sam squealed as the water rose over her feet. "You said it was lovely — it's _freezing_."

Foyle walked quickly over to her, taking her hand and pulling her further into the water. Sam gave a few more gasps as the cold water inched over her skin, making her shiver.

"One, two, three, and it all be over," Foyle said, nodded towards the deeper part of the river. "Once you're in you won't feel it."

"Together."

Hand in hand, they leapt into the deep water, Sam giving a last shriek before the water slid over her head. As they surfaced, Foyle found her arms clasped around his neck.

"I said not to drown me," he spluttered.

"You looked like Poseidon coming up from the river just then. I can't seem to help myself, Christopher, you must think me…"

He shushed her with a quick kiss, "I think you're marvellous, and I want you just as much."

"Do you? Oh jolly good…" she murmured against his lips.

The water lapped against their skin, making them tremble and Foyle pulled her closer. His hands slipped easily over her limbs with the water. Her skin seemed to leave a lingering heat against his palms. _Can we…here, of all places…_he wondered momentarily before answering his own question. His feet found purchase on the muddy soil below and he sighed in her ear.

"There had better be no eels…" Sam said as an afterthought.

"I think you're safe with me," Foyle whispered, pulling her legs around his waist now he'd found his feet.

He felt Sam's trembling intensifying and they shook with the new sensation of the water against their flaming skin.

"Always a fisherman, eh?" She smiled, tightening her arms around his neck.

"Just be careful I don't throw you back…"

* * *

They lay sprawled on the old blanket, a few crumbs and ginger beer bottles as the only evidence that there had been a picnic. Foyle was nearly asleep when he felt Sam's hand on his chest.

"Christopher?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you mind awfully if I said I want loads of children?"

He open one eye, "_loads_?"

"Well, a few anyway."

Foyle opened both eyes now, hearing a yearning and yet uncertain note in her voice. Propping himself up on one elbow, he took her hand. "I have a son, Sam," — _possibly even two_ — "and, um, I would be quite old when the children were growing up…"

Sam's face fell, and he cupped her chin to make her eye's meet his again. "However, we must be slightly practical. We haven't taken any precautions _against_ having children, so I can't say no altogether."

Foyle chewed his lip a moment, "Anyway, Sam, it would be better if you had a family around you when I'm gone."

Her eyes filled with sudden tears, and he hastened to stroke her cheek.

"I know you're right, Christopher, of course you are, I just hate to hear you say it."

"We must be practical about such things, my darling girl, and just take each moment God grants us. If you want loads of children, then I will agree, because I cannot deny you the comfort of a family." He kissed her cheek, "Besides, I should be thrilled to make a child with you, Sam."

"Would you really? You aren't just humouring me?"

Foyle raised an eyebrow.

Sam smiled and nodded, pushing away a few tears. "I want to have your children, Christopher. There's something inside me that makes me dizzy with pleasure at the mere thought."

Foyle felt his throat constrict and he gave her an upside down smile before pulling her down on the blanket beside him again.  
Clearing his throat he asked, "What about your war work?"

"Until I'm the size of a house, I'm sure I can still do something."

Foyle chuckled, planting a kiss on her forehead. _Good old Sam…_

The afternoon was already deep in shadow when they awoke from their nap. They packed up the picnic things and walked hand in hand by the river for awhile, enjoying the sunshine and peaceful atmosphere. They could almost forget there was a war on. Sam gave him a non-stop account her childhood holidays spent here, pointing out the orchards where she and the other children had gone scrumping.

"Who were all these other children then?"

"Farmer Bright's two boys, my cousins, and sometimes friends that came to stay. Uncle Aubrey loved having us. I think he quite missed not having a family of his own."

They walked and talked together, and Foyle listened happily to Sam's reminiscing. When the shadows became very long, they turned back, collecting the picnic things and going back up to the farmhouse. A collie dog came out to greet them, woofing mightily until she saw Sam. Her tail began to wag and she danced around Sam's feet.

"Hallo, darling Molly, what a good girl… it must mean David's here."

"Who is —" Foyle began, stopping in his tracks as a huge bear of a man came from the low doorway of the kitchen, wrapping up Sam as she gave a yell. He nearly dropped the hamper. _Haven't been married five minutes and already she's being swept up by a young man…_

The man and Sam were talking nineteen to the dozen, Molly the dog added an occasional woof. Foyle stood to one side, slightly at a loss. He cleared his throat.

"David," Sam said, pulling the young man's arm, "You must meet my husband, Christopher Foyle."

"How do you do?" Foyle said from behind the things in his arms.

"Hello, sir. Come away in with ye and set these things down. I see Sam's got you fetching and carrying already, sir."

Foyle chewed his lip, holding back a tut of exasperation. _As if…_ He put the things away in the pantry, turning back to the kitchen with a slightly stony face. In the strong light, he could see the young man more clearly - he was the very image of health and youthful vibrancy. He felt a pang of resentment that startled him.

"David Bright, Mr Foyle, very pleased to meet you."

Foyle was disarmed by the warmth and twinkle in the young's man dark eyes, and he felt himself relax. The two men shook hands. Sam slipped her arm through Foyle's and gave him a squeeze. "I rather like showing you off," she whispered in his ear, making him smile.

They followed David into the sitting room where he had tea waiting. Sam said, "David and his brother, Joseph, and I used to play together when we were young."

"Ah yes, I've been hearing about your scrumping days."

David nodded, "Aye, always was a terror for food this one."

Sam gave him a push. "You still working with the animals then?"

He nodded, "We had some help, but mostly it's me that deals with them. They know me, see."

"Were you sent girls from the Land Army? Uncle Aubrey said there were two living in the cottage, but they've gone now?"

David went red, "Yes and no. They've not gone from the farm…Joe and I…well, we married them, you see."

"You never!" Sam gaped at him, "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Weren't much chance…"

Foyle snorted, thinking the young man was lucky to get a word in edgewise.

They were interrupted by Mrs Bright coming in with freshly cut flowers. "A regular party in here, I see," she said, beaming at them.

Foyle caught Sam's eye and smiled softly at her. He had been worried about people's reactions to their marriage, if truth be told — he was concerned what people might say about Sam. But here they were put so at ease that he felt that it had been silly to worry. _And she makes it so easy…people always take to her. Somehow, I love her even more…my dear Sam..._


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

**June 1943**

Time, in its every increasing pattern of racing, seemed in this instance to stop for the newly-weds. They had days of uncommonly warm sunshine, hours of laying about on grassy knolls, and long talks that never seemed to end, as if being continually picked up from where they had left off. Before they knew it, their suspended time of bliss on Bright Farm was up, and Foyle and Sam began their journey back to Hastings and the real world of war, rationing, and duty.

They first stopped to have lunch with Uncle Aubrey before catching the bus that would take them, albeit rather circuitously, back to the coast. He sent them on their way in the early afternoon, beaming proudly, with a few bottles of sickly, green looking wine. The countryside seemed to slip past them, and soon the journey was punctuated with road blocks, long waits, and troop movements. It was nearly teatime before they arrived back in Hastings. Foyle hailed a cab and at last they were deposited in front of the house on Steep Lane, feeling rather weary.

Fishing around for his key, Foyle looked over his shoulder to see Sam staring up at the house with a small smile on her face. He chewed his lip a moment before unlocking the door. Standing back, he put down his case and took Sam's from her hand.

"What is it?" she asked, looking at him curiously.

"Want to do things properly," he said simply, bending down to sweep her into his arms.

She gave a small gasp and clutched at his neck. "Oh!"

He hoisted her a bit higher in his arms so that she rested comfortably against his chest. Putting his nose against her ear he gave her a small kiss before murmuring, "Welcome home, Mrs Samantha Foyle."

He carried her across the threshold, setting her down gently in the hall. Sam's hands were still around his neck and she pulled him into a deep kiss.

"I love you ever so much," she whispered, voice hitching with sudden emotion.

The door was open to the street and Foyle felt suddenly conscious of the fact. A strong breeze swirled past his knees, making the picture frames rattle slightly. _The whole street probably just saw that…_ He broke away, giving her a squeeze, reaching across the front step to collect the cases and close the door.

"Must we unpack right away or can we have a cup of tea first?" Sam asked, pulling off her hat. "I'm parched."

"Tea first."

Foyle took off his trilby and placed it on the stand. He smiled to himself, feeling warm inside at the thought the house was now properly a home again, rather than an empty shell of its former self.

"It isn't that I'm not terribly impressed by your feats of strength either," she added, "but I really _am_ tired after the journey."

Foyle chuckled, "There's time enough later, my dear…besides, I'm not sure how much strength I've got at this moment to carry you upstairs."

"Well, that's all right then," she laughed, walking through the lounge towards the kitchen.

The house smelled a bit musty, having been shut up for days and Foyle threw open a few windows as he went through. While their days at the farm had been anything but slow, he felt that he wouldn't mind easing into this new sensation of having Sam here in his house as his wife. _Our house, I should say,_ he corrected himself.

They had a quiet cup of tea, sitting at the table, holding hands, but both lost, quite peacefully, in their own thoughts. Sam finally broke the silence, "shall we open a tin of something or find somewhere that might have fish and chips?"

"I know a place nearby that usually has a decent bit of fish."

"I'll lay the table; you get the fish?"

When Foyle returned with the newspaper wrapped dinner, he had to smile again at the feel of sudden domesticity that hung about the place. Sam had looked after things when Lydia and Jimmy had been here of course, but it seemed different now — it was being claimed for her own. She had drawn the blackout curtains and put candles from the pantry on the table.

They created a soft glow, the darkness on the edges smudged — they were cocooned there in the low light together. They ate in silence, enjoying the peace between them. Having talked for days quite easily, they found they could be companionably quiet together too. Though Sam usually chattered away, there was a new side Foyle was seeing: one that reflected silently and watched curiously. He understood — it was different being here, back on old territory, in a new role.

"You worried about being back in Hastings as Mrs Foyle?" he finally asked, chewing his cheek.

Sam looked up, no longer surprised that he could read her thoughts. "A bit perhaps. It shouldn't matter, but I can't help thinking about it. Wondering if people might treat me differently…"

"It won't make any difference to the people who are important in your life, Sam."

"I know, and I've seen that. Brookie and Milner, and the Brights — they've all been real bricks. It's just me being silly."

He took her hand. "It isn't silly; I shouldn't worry too much, however. You're still Sam, no matter what."

She smiled at him, "You're right of course."

"And now, Mrs Foyle, I'm quite ready to carry you up those stairs, er, if you wish."

Sam gave a huff of laughter, "Are you really? I can't imagine doing anything strenuous at the moment…my legs feel like lead."

Foyle stood, clearing away the meal. "Come on, time for bed. We need a good sleep."

They went up together, Sam following on Foyle's heels. He tread the familiar route to the bedroom, noticing when opening the door that Sam hesitated. Taking her hand, he guided her into the room.

"This is _our_ room now, Sam. _Our_ home. Tomorrow you can go through everything and change things to your liking. Organise the linen cupboard — whatever you like. All right?"

She nodded, smiling at him gratefully. Foyle rather liked the feel of _our_ as it rolled across his tongue. It made him feel warm and contented. He pulled her into a embrace, "We're in this together, all right? This is our life."

They slipped beneath the fresh sheets that Foyle had remembered to put on before leaving for the wedding. The cotton felt cold from the night air, and Foyle gathered Sam to him. He was amused to see her fall fast asleep nearly instantly. His mind was still churning, so he stroked her hair, listening to her breathing growing heavier. He was grateful that no ghosts of his past were dogging him. Though this had been the bed he and Rosalind had slept in, where Andrew had been conceived, and incidentally where their son had been born, it did not seem false to begin again here with Sam.

Foyle felt sure that she would feel at home here soon. Rev Stewart was sending boxes of her bits and pieces from the vicarage this week. With her things around her, all in their own place, he knew it would be easier. There were times, like now when looking down at her peaceful, sleeping face, that he was reminded of how young she was. Yet, Foyle reasoned, she was mature beyond her years. The war and her illness had seemed to crush the youthfulness; the spark was still there, but it had been surrounded by a hardened determination. Foyle sighed softly to himself, closing his eyes. _How grateful I am to have her by me…_

* * *

They awoke early, having become accustomed the cockerel's dawn cry at the Bright's farm. Sam smiled across at Foyle, eyes still drowsy with sleep. He slung a heavy arm around her and pulled her to him, snuggling into her neck. Sam heard him sigh contently and she smiled again.

"I'm so relieved," she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"To be here, finally, in our at bed at home. It feels like we're properly married now."

Eyes still closed, Foyle murmured, "Well…we should bless the marriage bed…" He nuzzled deeper, breathing her in.

The night time thoughts that had plagued her and seemed so large in the candlelight were gone with the morning. She knew that their being here with one another was the most important thing. Relaxing into his arms, Sam began an exploration of the nape of his neck with her fingertips.

She knew all of him, but each foray into the territory of Foyle still felt exciting and new. He stirred. She loved him in these moments of half sleep, when his face was unworried and his body heavy against hers.

The delicious thought that she would wake to him like this every morning made her heart leap. Each morning, in this bed, in this room — he would wake to be hers and she his. It made her shiver in pleasant anticipation. They would make their memories here; make their children; talk long hours of dreams and fancies; here was the core of their home, and it was now wholly theirs.

Her hand slipped from his nape, across the landscape of his shoulder and down the wiry haired forest of his chest. His breathing came sharply through his nose and she smiled, knowing she'd lit the flame of him. "Good morning..."

Eyes still closed, his lips snaked upwards slowly. His tongue demanded the attention of hers. He was unhurried, and Sam marvelled at his patience. It thrilled her through the urgency it created. Eyes open now, Foyle gazed down, the bright blue of his eyes warming her. There was a deepness there that she felt she could become lost in.

The bed, the room, the house — it was all now theirs together. Sam assured him with her responses that her underlying worries of the previous day were gone. There were no more kingdoms to be conquered; they had advanced together to this point, and the strength of him inside her gave her conviction.

"I'm at home," she whispered up to him, "truly."

"Yes, my darling, you are."


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Things begin to change for our love birds with the arrival of a letter...

* * *

Chapter 17

**July 1943**

It was one of those days at the end of July that started out hot and only became hotter. There was a thundery presence in the air, leaving both Sam and Foyle feeling sticky with sweat. At the end of the week they would have been married six weeks. In the intervening weeks, they had slowly slipped into their roles about the house, each day becoming closer and more comfortable with the other. In fact, Sam couldn't imagine having dinner without Foyle, or falling asleep without his comforting weight nestled beside her. She had spent a week filtering in her own possessions about the house — books on shelves and inherited linens into bottom drawers— reorganising cupboards, and restocking the pantry as best their combined rationing would allow.

They had been pleasant weeks, with the weather growing increasingly warmer. Sam had experienced a funny turn about a week ago, coming over all faint and feeling ill. She had put it down to doing too much and the weather's change. Foyle however, had tilted his head to one side and given her an incredibly soft look. She had noticed his eyes on her more often from then on. Finally, after two days of his scrutiny, she burst out in sheer frustration: "Oh _do_ stop looking at me like that, Christopher. What is the matter?"

"Still feeling ill, my dear?"

"Yes, a bit…but I'm fine, just the change in the weather, that's all. Now do stop worrying. It's driving me mad."

He chuckled, "How are your mathematics, Sam?"

"You're being infuriating."

"It wouldn't, er, be the first time…"

Sam sighed, looking at him in exasperation.

Still chewing his lip, a look of pure amusement on his face, Foyle came to stand in front of her. To her surprise he cupped her breasts. "These beauties feeling a bit heavy and uncomfortable lately?"

She stared at him. He leaned his forehead against hers, nudging her slightly with his nose. "Things been, er, a bit, um, irregular?"

Her mouth fell open and he grinned. The penny dropped.

"I…I hadn't even thought…how did you…Christopher, do you really think so?"

He chuckled, "Did it really not occur to you?"

"Well…so much has changed recently…" she looked at him sharply, "And while you may be an expert, they don't tell us a _thing_ about this sort…about what happens…_nothing_."

Foyle kissed her temple, "Poor love."

Sam huffed, feeling slightly put out that he was teasing her.

"I'm not an expert, far from it. But we should have everything checked by the doctor." Trying to ease her mood, he added lightly, "Besides, if it is the case, it means you'll get a special ration book. More eggs for you."

Sam suddenly sat down in a nearby chair with a bump. "Golly."

He knelt by her and took her hand. "I do love you, my clever girl. And I'm ever so happy."

Sam burst into tears, smiling and crying at the same time, falling against his shoulder. "Oh, I'm so pleased."

"Can I still do my bit for the war effort?" she asked finally.

"I don't see why not." Foyle laughed and kissed her, brushing away tears on her cheek.

"Jolly good…"

Sam mused on this happily, plucking at her dress. It stuck to her and made her feel itchy. They had seen the doctor last week and though it was early days, everything looked normal. The reality had sunk it after that and she kept smiling to herself with pleasure. While being with Foyle all day was what she had only known for years, she couldn't very well _not_ do her bit for Britain. _Better do what I can now before I must stay home…_

She had a feeling Foyle was thinking the same, and that he was ready to be doing something more too. He had been fiddling with his fishing gear and tying flies all week, but his mind was hard at work, she could see that.

He came through to the kitchen where she sat, trying to keep cool in the draught from the back door.

"I'm just going to nip into town for a few bits; pick up a paper. You need anything?"

"No, I don't think so. Do you want me to come with you?"

"If you wish, but you do look heavenly there."

She grinned up at him, "You go then, and I'll move in precisely ten minutes and start on lunch."

He leaned down to kiss her. "See you in a bit."

"I think it is going to rain later…" he said more to himself than her as he walked through the house.

Sam heard him gather up his keys and a few loose coins, and listened to his jangling steps down to the pavement. Sighing and putting her head back slightly, she let the refreshing breeze trickle over her, cooling the places where her dress stuck to her skin. _Maybe I'll move in fifteen minutes…._

Her own hunger induced her to get moving, and she clattered about the kitchen languidly, dreaming of ice creams. Foyle returned about half an hour later, calling out, "I'm back," as he came through the door. She heard him pick up the post and slap it down with his paper on the sideboard.

"I've brought you something," he said, coming in to the kitchen.

Sam looked over her shoulder, asking in a hopeful voice, "Your ration of bacon?"

Foyle chuckled, "Cupboard love if I've ever heard it."

He put a strong arm around her middle, pulling her to him. With his other hand he brought up a small bouquet of flowers. Deep purple asters bobbed prettily in amongst other bright blooms.

"These are from Mrs Reynolds two doors down. I stopped to say hello and remark on her garden, and she insisted I take them for 'my pretty young wife'."

"Oh, they're lovely," Sam cried, turning his arms to find his lips.

"Better than bacon?" he murmured against her kiss.

"Almost." She nipped his bottom lip.

Slipping from his arms, she went through to the other room. Collecting a small vase from the sideboard, she noticed the pile of unopened letters. One bit of handwriting, only just visible from underneath a larger envelope, caught her eye and she froze, recognising it immediately.

"Christopher?"

"Hmm?"

She carried the pile in to where he was already sat, pouring a glass of water. Handing it to him, she bit her lip.  
Foyle noticed at once why she had brought it to him, and he ripped it open, eyes racing across the page.

His face drained of colour, eyes widening. Sam stopped herself from asking what it was. _If it is bad news, there would have been a telegram_, she reminded herself practically, _don't assume the worst. He'll tell you when he's through reading._

To her surprise, however, Foyle didn't. He folded the letter and closed his eyes. The look of anguish on his face nearly made her cry out. Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. She felt suddenly very worried.

"Darling?…"

Foyle stood, letter grasped in his hand. He shook his head and closed his eyes again. This time Sam went to him, putting a cool hand on his arm. To her dismay, he froze before slowly removing himself from her grasp.

"What is the matter, Christopher? Tell me at once." Her voice was sharp with fright.

He shook his head again, not saying a word. Trying to clear his throat, he mumbled something.

She put a hand on his arm again, "I didn't hear you. Is he all right, Christopher? Oh please talk to me."

His face had hardened and she was really frightened now. She hadn't seen him like this before. Foyle opened his eyes — the usual cool blue was suddenly ablaze and Sam drew back.

"Oh yes…he's fine…Fighting fit, in fact."

"You're making no sense, what's he written?" She reached out for the letter, but he kept it behind him.

"It isn't addressed to you, Sam." His voice was uncharacteristically cold.

Sam stepped back, arms limp at her side. She stared at him, face pink with hurt and surprise. Though her eyes filled with tears, she said evenly, "I will ask you again, Christopher. What is the matter?"

With a frown, his lips turned downwards in emotion. His voice was softer now. "I don't want you to read it."

She felt her tears slipping down her face now — seeing him so upset was like the world ending. "Tell me then."

"No." He shook his head again, looking away so she wouldn't see the mist in his eyes.

Beginning to feel frustrated as well as frightened, she frowned. "I want to know."

"You don't, actually."

"I do. If it has upset you this much, I think I have a right to know." Her voice was full of impatience now.  
It must have touched a nerve because slowly Foyle pulled the letter from behind him and held it out to her.

"Suit yourself."

She took it, and he turned on his heel in one graceful movement, going through the back door to stand in the garden. She stared after him, realising her heart was pounding. Now that she had the letter in her hand, she wasn't at all sure she _did_ want to read it.

With the blood rushing in her ears, she opened the letter. Eyes racing, she caught words like _how_ _dare you…shocking…dirty old man… position of trust…deceitful… silly girl…swept away…never speak to you again…no family of mine…._

Sitting down with a thud, Sam closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When she opened them again, she read through the letter properly. Her hands were shaking and a feeling of utter mortification sank like a stone within her. _I've turned his son against him. Christopher must despise me…_

She wasn't sure how long she'd sat there, staring at the letter and crying. His words kept running through her mind, making her cringe. She felt a sort of shame settling on her, as if she had done something awful. A loud thunderclap overhead made her jump. It brought her back to the kitchen, and she realised huge drops of rain were beginning to hit the windowpane.

Turning in her seat, she saw Foyle still standing in the same spot in the garden. His hands were in his pocket, and he hung his head, chewing his cheek agitatedly. Sam stood, leaving the letter open on the table, and went to him slowly, the raindrops feeling like little knives against her now chilled skin. She came to stand next to him, arms crossed to hide her shivering. She tried to form words, but only managed a tearful squeak.

Foyle turned his face towards her and she couldn't tell if his face was wet from tears or the rain. He looked ghastly pale. He bit his lip, "I'm so sorry, Sam."

"You're sorry?" she sniffed loudly, "Oh Christopher, can you ever forgive me? I'm so terribly, terribly sorry."

The distress in her voice made him take her hand. "Forgive you? What for?"

"For coming between you and Andrew…you've lost your son because of me…" she burst into sobs.

His face fell and he pulled her to him. "Darling, how can you think _that_? Never."

"But…"

He shushed her and Sam shivered against him. The rain pelted down around them in vast sheets. They stood together for a moment, clinging to each other. "I reacted badly, Sam. I didn't mean to push you out. I just wanted to keep you from…well…I didn't want you upset…"

Sam nodded, more tears erupting from some deep fear that she might have lost him over this. They were both soaked, and she could see the arc of his fine shoulders under the white shirt now plastered to his skin. Pulling her towards the house he murmured, "I said it might rain…"

Sam followed him blindly, pushing tears from her eyes, still shaking from small sobs. He lead her through the kitchen where their salad and spam sandwich lunch was wilting on the counter. Tugging her gently up the stairs, he went to their bedroom, fetching a towel from the bathroom on the way. He began to rub her dry. Seeing she was still crying, he put his hands to her face, making her look at him.

"Sam, listen now, my darling." Satisfied that she was looking at him, he continued, "I will never stop loving you. Not for any man — not for my son. No one, you understand, can ever come between us." A hand drifted to rest on her belly, "We're together in this…always, Sam."

Sam burst into fresh tears of relief and he wrapped her up tightly in his arms.

"If Andrew has decided to be a ruddy pig, it doesn't mean that _we've_ done anything wrong. There is nothing to be ashamed of, all right? You've done nothing wrong, and neither have I. He's the only one who is wrong in this matter."

When her sobs had subsided she said, "But Andrew…what about you and Andrew?"

"We will have to knock some sense in to him. I'm sure he will come around…" His voice cracked however, and Sam saw the pain in his eyes. He was being brave for her and she felt a sudden wave of fury at Andrew for causing his father such undeserving anguish.

"He never thinks things through…"

Sam huffed, "Isn't that the truth. I've never known anyone so thoughtless at times…"

Despite his courage, Foyle's face crumbled, finally succumbing to the despair he felt.

"Oh my darling, I'm so sorry. It's too beastly," Sam whispered.

She felt his head descend on to her shoulder, wet face turning to nuzzle into her neck. She reached up, fingers stroking the curls behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. He'd let his hair grow long after the wedding. She found herself rocking slightly, heart breaking for him. Kissing his neck and cheek, she made soothing noises. She felt she didn't know what to say and her arms tightened protectively around him. They cried together, holding on to each other for dear life.

Foyle sighed and ran a hand across his face. He drew back to face her and capture her lips. "I love you, Sam, and I'm sorry that you have been subjected to my son's idiot temper."

"It wouldn't be the first time," she sniffed, "he'll come around."

Foyle nodded, sighing deeply. Sam felt him begin to tremble and she ran her hands up and down his arms. They were both soaked through.

"I love you too; even when you're sopping wet," she smiled.

A corner of his mouth dipped in amusement. She made a beeline for it, kissing him. Foyle breathed heavily through his nose as his tongue touched hers. It sent a wave of desire through her and without a second though, she followed her instincts. She might not know what to say to comfort him, but she could try to comfort him in another way.

"Let's get out of these wet clothes, shall we?" she murmured against his kiss.

His movements were fumbling and hurried. Sam sensed that through the sadness now came an anger. It was like a burning fury that seethed in his gut. He was rough and unlike himself, groaning from inner torment above her. She tried to sooth him and draw him back to her, but it quickly passed and he lay panting, pooled in sweat. He kissed her lips softly, eyes sorrowful. Laying his head on her breast, he turned his face away from her and Sam felt his shoulders contract in short, silent sobs.

In some despair, Sam rubbed his back, unsure of what to do in this new sphere of Foyle's emotions. She felt drained. Thunder shook the house and she closed her eyes against more tears. _Damn you, bloody Andrew Foyle…damn, damn, damn…_


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

**July 1943**

The hours of darkness seemed to drag on and on. Each time Sam checked the small clock on the bedside table only short increments of time had passed. Foyle tossed and turned next to her and she heard from his breathing that he was awake. She longed for the morning when they could decide on what to do. Now was not the time. She sensed he was lost within himself.

She fell asleep before dawn, but Foyle slipped away silently, pulling on yesterday's clothes. She woke to find the room, and indeed the house empty. A sudden fear - the kind that preys on those with little sleep - stabbed a staccato rhythm against her chest. She ran through the house, throwing open doors and calling for him, but the place echoed emptily. The only sound was the pounding rain outside. She felt he was retreating away from her. There was no note. The clock on the mantelpiece read eight o'clock and Sam was on the brink of calling Milner or Brookie at the station.

Just then she heard a key in the lock and she flew to the hall. "Where have you been?" her voiced demanded strongly. "I've been worried sick."

Foyle looked up, eyes bruised with lack of sleep and face creased with heavy thoughts. "I went for a walk. I'm sorry you were worried."

"It's pouring!"

Foyle slipped out of his jacket, "I noticed. I didn't want to wake you."

With his calm voice speaking from in front of her, Sam felt suddenly guilty for being cross with him.

He took her hand. "Couldn't sleep. Wanted to think and movement helps."

"Oh Christopher, I don't know what to do," she said, looking small and forlorn in her nightdress and robe. "Please tell me what I can do so you won't keep me at bay."

He frowned, hurt touching the edges of his features. "I don't mean to build walls…I'm just not used to…allowing someone in. I'm truly sorry, my darling. Truth is, I don't know what to do either."

Foyle pulled her into an embrace, nuzzling at her ear. "Andrew made me so angry," he confessed softly, "he brought up so many things that had plagued me for years — reasons why I shouldn't become involved with you."

"But…"

"I suddenly doubted myself, and I hated him for that, because what we have is something wonderful. I wouldn't change it for the world."

Foyle sat down heavily at the table and she sat beside him, holding his hand.

"I felt such anger at myself too, Sam, because what right do I have to hate him? He is my son, and therefore I am responsible too. If I hadn't been so vacant after Rosalind…if I had been a better father to him…"

"Oh Christopher…you can't blame yourself."

He looked up at her with sorrowful eyes, "My dear, it is all I can do. I feel so disappointed — mostly in myself. Let him down… What would his mother say?" Clearing his throat, Foyle went on, "Andrew once accused me of not knowing him at all — perhaps he was right. I still think of him as that eight year old boy, but he's become a man."

"Well, he acts fairly childish for the most part…" Sam's eyes flamed suddenly, "just because I was his girl…it's like I was a play thing he put down, expecting it to be right where he left it for when he had interest in it again. He's angry with you because he thinks you took me away from him."

"Yes."

"What an idiot."

Foyle's lips moved down into a hint of a smile. "He does have his moments." He rubbed the back of her left hand, fingertips tracing the rings there. "I've decided not to respond."

"You won't write him?"

"No. Doesn't warrant a response."

Sam looked at him carefully, "I know he's your son, Christopher, and I don't want to tell you what to do, but surely you have to write him _something_?"

"Pick a fight over pride? No, I think not."

"Those that know us best know just how to hurt us, don't they?" Sam said softly, more to herself.

"Afraid so."

"Christopher, if you don't write to him and sort this out, you know he won't suddenly come to his senses. He might not speak to you again."

Foyle stood up. "I shan't write him, Sam. If he things so little of me — and of you — then he can jolly well stay away."

Sam winced, "Don't say that, please."

"He's done enough damage for one day, Sam. I think it is best to let it blow over. If he's anything close to the boy I tried to raise, he'll realise he's in the wrong."

The was an air of finality in his words, and Sam watched as he went to put the kettle on. A sort of despondency had settled in his shoulders. _Why won't these Foyle's ever ruddy well talk? Hurt pride and it's off on the defensive._ Sam frowned fiercely at the table in front of her. _Like to knock their heads together once and for all…silly men…_

* * *

After the day the letter arrived, it had rained for a nearly a week. Foyle had not brought up the letter or any mention of Andrew. He could see that Sam wanted him to say something about it, but his mind was made up. It was best not to think about it. There was a latent hurt that still throbbed within in him, and he hoped it would go away if he wouldn't allow himself to be reminded.

The rain kept the two of them indoors, and Foyle tried to go on normally. He sensed Sam becoming increasingly impatient with him because of his decision. This particular afternoon they sat in the lounge together, the rain dripping against the windowpanes. Over a cup of tea Foyle began to outline his plans.

"I've been thinking about writing a memoir."

Sam put down her tea cup slowly, "A memoir?"

"About the Hastings Constabulary during the war years."

"Not that you've seen them out, exactly."

He gave her a look.

"Can I be your typist?" she asked eagerly.

"Certainly. If you're sure you don't mind."

"Will I be in it? As your driver, I mean."

Foyle pursed his lips. "We'll see."

"I can fit it around my new job up at Beverly Lodge!"

Her enthusiasm made him smile. "It starts…?"

"Next week."

"Right." Foyle stood and went to his desk, shuffling through the papers there. "It will be strange without you here."

"You don't mind, Christopher?"

He turned to face her, leaning against the desk, "No, of course not, my darling. It's just … it will be the first time in years we won't be with each other during the day. Funny thing, really…" he came to stand beside her, "I've rather gotten used to you."

She laughed and stood to wrap her arms around him. Giving him a quick peck she said, "Do you know, I've rather gotten used to you as well."

"Have you indeed?" he teased, giving her a squeeze.

They began work on the memoir the very next day, and by the weekend they were well under way with writing.

Setting up camp at the dining table, they sat opposite each other, notes spread out between them. Foyle spoke slowly while Sam typed. He kept sighing now and then when he had to wait.

"Do stop sighing like that, Christopher, it's putting me off." She frowned at him over the top of the typewriter.

"Am I going too fast?"

"No, it's not me, its the typewriter. It keeps jamming."

Foyle chewed his cheek, "Doesn't when I use it."

"Bully for you."

"Well look, if you can do shorthand, why aren't we _using_ your shorthand?" He asked impatiently.

"I can write it, but I can't, um, actually read it."

Foyle rolled his eyes, "Right."

Sam rubbed her back, looking agitatedly at the machine. "Is it going to be a very _long_ book?"

"Looks like it…" Foyle stood and began moving some of his notes around the table. "Trying to tell me something?"

"No."

"We're wasting our time, is that what you're telling me?"

"Christopher, it's fine."

"Better to tell me now."

"Well, you could come up with a better title…"

Foyle came to stand over her shoulder, looking down at the typed page. "Hmm, yes I suppose."

He leaned a bit closer. "Er, Sam? What's _illegal rambling_?"

"What?" Sam leaned in to look where his finger was pointing. "Ah, that should be _gambling_."

"Yes, _I_ thought so…"

Sam sighed. "Might we take a break, Christopher?"

Kissing the top of her head, Foyle said, "Of course."

When Sam stood she breathed in sharply and put a hand to her lower back. She muttered, "Damn, must have been sitting awkwardly."

Foyle turned back to her from his notes, "You all right? What have you done?"

"Just sitting too long behind that contraption, that's all."

"Why don't you run a hot bath, ease the muscles a bit and I'll bring you up a cup of tea. Bath will do you good."

"All four inches of it…" she said rather petulantly.

"Go on, I'll be up soon."

He stood over his notes, wondering if Sam was right. _Maybe this book is a silly idea — who will want to read about_ The History of Hastings Constabulary in the Wartime Years? _Is it merely a distraction…?_

The plumbing clunked from above and he heard the bath filling. As frustrating as dictating the book to Sam was, he rather liked to see her behind the typewriter. It reminded him of their days together at the police station. _I really will miss her being around next week…_

Foyle went to make the tea, thinking that he would go fishing tomorrow after church to stock up the larder a bit. With Sam's appetite about to double, he'd have to catch a few more. He smiled and thought about which flies he might use. Moving around the kitchen easily, he found a bit of sugar he'd been saving. _Sam will cheer up if she sees this…_

While waiting for the kettle to finish boiling, he amused himself with pleasant thoughts. Maybe if she wasn't too impatient with him still, he'd get in the bath with her, rub her back a bit…

The whistling kettle broke his pleasant reverie, and he moved to take it off the hob. Just as he turned to pick up the tea pot a heart-rending shriek came from above.

_"Christopher!"_

The panic and distress was evident and Foyle's blood ran cold.

_Sam!_


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

**July 1943**

Foyle pounded up the stairs, heart racing. He burst through the door of the bathroom. "Sam?"

He stopped and looked, a slow feeling of horror sinking through him. Sam stood in the bath, looking down at the water which was now a pinkish hue. Against her white inner thigh blood dribbled slowly down. He could see she was shaking, and a limp hand rested against her middle, the other pushed against the wall for support.

"I forgot a towel…I just stood up…and…."

Her legs began to shake violently. Putting out a hand, Foyle moved slowly towards her.

"All right, my love," he said calmly, "all right."

He reached her side and put a strong hand on her arm. Reaching behind him for a hand towel, he put it against her thigh. It came away bright red, and Foyle's stomach contracted. Blood normally didn't bother him, but seeing _Sam's_ blood made him feel faint. He tried to clean her up a bit, his movements slow and gentle.

"All right, my love," he repeated, "I'm here, easy now."

He slipped an arm around her and helped her step from the bath. She leaned against him heavily. Looking around the tiny bathroom, Foyle spotted his robe on the hook behind the door. He'd left it there carelessly this morning, and now he was glad he had. Wrapping it around Sam, he picked her up in his arms. She was still shaking and from the depths of her came a soft whimpering.

"Shh, I've got you, my darling." Foyle carried her across the hall to their bedroom and set her gently on their bed. He pulled the eiderdown from his side over her, cocooning her in its folds. "I'm going to ring for the doctor. Lie still, I'll be right back."

He raced down the stairs to the hall. Running a hand across his face he ignored the pounding of his heart. Within two minutes he was back upstairs with Sam, sat on the bed beside her. "Doctor's on his way."

She looked at the wall with unseeing eyes and nodded vacantly. "It's gone, Christopher."

He leaned in to kiss her temple, "I'm so sorry, my darling."

Foyle stood on the landing while the doctor was with Sam. There was a tremor beginning in his hand, so he clenched it into a fist and stuffed it into his pocket. The doctor found him pacing when he came out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly. Foyle had known the man for years, and yet the sight of him never did seem to do anything to ease his nerves.

"Christopher." The doctor rubbed his beard, "Shall we go downstairs?"

Foyle nodded, and led the way down to the lounge.

"She's lost it, I'm afraid."

"I gathered that," Foyle said, voice cold with agitation.

"I understand she had an illness associated with anthrax not terribly long ago?"

Foyle nodded, "About two years ago, yes. Is that why…?"

"It could be any number of things, my dear fellow. I shouldn't think _you've_ done anything wrong, either of you. These things can happen. Any number of reasons." The doctor rubbed his beard as he spoke, which Foyle found distracting. He longed the shake the man and shout 'why!?'

Instead he asked, "Will she be all right?"

"Yes, of course — bit of a shock, but give it a month or two, let everything regulate itself, and you can try again. Can't say it won't happen again, but you won't know until you try."

Foyle winced, not entirely sure that was a prospect he wanted to face. "What can I do?"

"Carry on as normal, dear fellow. Keep an eye on her of course, see she gets plenty of rest — any worries, just telephone."

"Thanks for coming out so quickly."

"Certainly." They shook hands, and the doctor added, "I'm sorry, Christopher. But this isn't the end, you've plenty of chances still."

Foyle said nothing, ushering the man out. He leaned back against the door after it shut. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He went back up to Sam, finding her much as he'd left her.

"How are you?"

She said nothing, eyes still vacant.

"Try to get some sleep. Can I…um, do you want anything?"

When she didn't answer, he rested a hand on her arm and left the room. _First thing's first._ He returned to the bathroom, eyeing the bath hesitantly. Rolling up his sleeves, he dipped a hand in to retrieve the plug. He gasped as the coldness of the water claimed his hand.

Turning away quickly as it began to drain, he found some cleaning materials. He scrubbed the bath furiously, attacking the thin ring that had formed from the standing water. The sharp smell of the scouring soap filled his nostrils. He carried on, letting the motions work him into a soothing rhythm. Though the tension in his body eased slightly, his mind continued to whirl.

He felt the loss two fold, on top of this business with Andrew, but his first thought was for Sam. _Poor Sam, she so wanted a child. Loads of children she said…I suppose we can try again. She is young enough…she's got time._ The briefest flicker of relief passed through him, and Foyle stood up, feeling suddenly extremely guilty. He wanted a child because Sam did, and he wanted to please her more than anything. _But is it entirely true?_ There was a part of him that _was_ content with what they had. Foyle passed a hand across his forehead, battling with his thoughts.

Feeling very confused and unhappy, Foyle leaned against the now shining porcelain bath. He stared in front of him, blinking back tears. _Darling Sam, whatever can I say to you…?_ Noticing the stained hand towel, he closed his eyes, the physical reminder of loss suddenly oppressing him.

He leaned across and was quietly sick in to the sink. He ran the tap, hoping Sam hadn't heard him. Trembling and splashing water on his face, Foyle resolved to push his feelings to the side and focus on Sam. _I'm accustomed to loss_, he thought bitterly, _she, however, is not…_


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

**July 1943**

Foyle spent the next few days doing as much around the house as possible. It was as if he yearned for physical movement to keep any emotions at bay. He felt he was in a sort of vacuum and so he tread lightly. He kept a close eye on Sam, and for all his worries about what to say, he found that listening was mostly required. Sam opened up to him as he cradled her in his arms. He held her tightly as she cried and explained the feeling of utter loss within her. It broke his heart when she tried to make him understand. She felt such pain and guilt, as if she were being punished.

"I can't even be a proper wife to you…I can't even…"

Foyle tried to be firm with her and bring her back to herself through practical, soothing words. "You are _not_ to blame. I didn't marry you solely to have children, Sam. You are a _wonderful_ wife, and a fine woman. You are so kind and caring and thoughtful. What on earth would I do without you? Being my wife is only one of the many things that you are, Sam."

For the most part, however, he listened, as there wasn't much he could say to make it any easier. For her, the dull ache was constant. He tried to help her come to terms, and slowly, she talked herself out. Foyle worked hard to get her to eat, to rest, and to keep things going normally. He busied himself around the house and garden in a high state of agitation, chewing his cheeks until they were raw. When she spent one day continually bursting into tears, he felt utterly at a loss, and in the end he asked her if she wanted her mother to come down.

"No, I don't want my mother, I want _you_."

"I'm here, Sam…" he said, confused.

"You're not, you're behind your walls again."

Foyle could only stare at her, the battle of his emotions playing out behind cool, blue eyes.

"You're probably pleased. Didn't really want children — said so yourself when we were by the river."

He pushed himself away from her and went to stand by the window, frowning out at the world that seemed so much darker than before. Hearing her begin to cry again, he ducked his head.

"I'm so sorry, Christopher. I don't know why I said that."

"You read me so well. I did feel relief, but only for about a minute. A selfish minute that I have felt so guilty about."

Her voice was small behind him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I don't know why I tried to hurt you."

He turned back to her and said with a devastating sigh, "You wanted to make sure I was hurting as much as you. I understand that, Sam. But you must also understand I deal with things very differently from you."

She nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"Sam, it will take time, and just because we try to move on doesn't mean we forget. We adjust."

"The walls you build aren't against me?"

Foyle tilted his head to one side, tongue touching his top lip. Giving her a look of mixed impatience and love, he said, "You're with me behind the walls, Sam. Don't you see? I retreat as self preservation, but you're there keeping me going."

"Oh…Christopher, you must think me awful."

He came to sit beside her again, putting an arm around her. "I don't actually. Blaming yourself and being angry is just part of coping. _I_ understand that."

Sam shifted in her seat uncomfortably, "Of course you do…oh Christopher, I'm sorry."

"My darling girl, I wish I could fix it. It drives me mad that I can't _do anything_. I feel so powerless."

"Is that why you've been reorganising and repairing things?"

Foyle's lips turned down in to a soft smile, "I suppose so…"

He pulled her closer, "Sam, I'm so proud of you, you know. You are so strong and brave. I'm overwhelmed constantly by your love. This life isn't easy, but together we'll get through it."

"I pray each day that I can be a good wife to you. You've made me into a better person, someone I'm glad to be…I just don't want to let you down."

"You could never let me down…"

"I know we'll get through it, Christopher. I just feel so _hopeless_, and guilty for feeling so. I know this isn't the end, but I can't seem to help feeling it is."

"It's only normal. You must give yourself time, my darling. Grief is a heavy thing, but I'm here to help you."

She found his lips with her own. Tears were in her eyes again, "And I'm so, so glad you are."

Time moved slowly for the two, each locked in their own pattern of coping. Foyle continued to repair, re-plaster, and work in the garden, alternatively giving her space and being there when she faltered. Sam slowly found her way back to herself. They were no longer miles apart in the same house. Not an unchallenging time by any means, but they felt closer for it all the same.

When her new job as a librarian at Beverly Lodge was due to begin at the end of that week, Sam was keen and eager. Foyle felt uncertain about allowing her to go to work so soon after, but seeing how much doing something for herself as well as the war effort seemed so important, he agreed. Having a focus and routine could only help matters, he decided.

She jumped in with both feet, and typical Sam, was enthusiastic and full of sense of duty. She cycled there each day, enjoyed her work, although it wasn't as exciting as she'd hoped, and came home pleasantly exhausted. Foyle was in two minds about the work she was doing — it obviously had helped, but he was feeling slightly left out. She couldn't tell him a thing about what she was doing — though her job was straightforward, the material was all rather hush hush.

For his part, he made sure to keep an eye on her progress of recovery, keeping her well fed and seeing she got plenty of rest. He spent his days fishing and plodding along through his memoir, typing steadfastly away each afternoon. He missed her terribly.

A bit more than a month passed in this manner. Sam's long days and the far cycle ride to and fro wore her out, and Foyle was content to let her rest. After the heady excitement of their first days of marriage, they had now found a more steady rhythm of the day to day. Their intimacies were different now; small things, touches, looks. Indeed, perhaps because of some initial concern after her ordeal, he hadn't thought to bring it up. _Once she feels more herself…give her some time…_

Only, Foyle hadn't realised that he too needed time.

* * *

The work had been a blessing, Sam had thought to herself more than once. While she loved Foyle more than anything in the world, being in the house with him tinkering away incessantly had been driving her spare. She realised she still had a lot to learn about men, husbands in particular. Her father used to go off to his study when he was agitated, leaving her and her mother to some peace and quiet. Perhaps if the Rev Stewart had been a man who worked with his hands, it wouldn't have been quite so peaceful.

She cried now and then, feelings still bubbling up and catching her unaware; it was a slow process. The empty feeling was still there at times. However, there was the old eagerness and spark starting to return as things balanced out again. The feeling was half wanting to try again, and half missing the comfort of Foyle's physical love. He didn't come to her like he used to, but Sam had to concede there hadn't been much time. For all their closeness, a part of her did feel slightly adrift from him. _Maybe it's because we have never been away from each other this much before. New job takes up most of my time…_

One Sunday evening, around the middle of August, they sat in the lounge with a whiskey each over a game of chess. The soft light of evening came gently through the window and Sam found her eye wandering from the chess board to gaze at Foyle across from her. His rapt face was nearly comical in its seriousness. He had taught her too well and she held her own with him in the game.

She noticed how he chewed his cheek, eyes missing nothing on the board in front of him. His elbows rested heavily on his knees, spread wide to accommodate the small table between them. She felt a delicious shiver slip through her as she observed the way his trousers bunched around his thighs as he leaned forward. He made his move, finally looking up to catch her eye.

"Check."

His eyes looked startlingly blue in the soft light and she put her head to one side, smiling. He looked such a figure of masculinity, sat there at his leisure. Scratching his forehead, he smiled back, "Your move."

_Indeed_, thought Sam in amusement.

She stood and came towards him. He looked up in surprise as she pushed him gently back his seat and crept into his lap.

"Er…hello, my dear. This is a nice surprise."

She tickled his chin before guiding his lips onto hers. "I miss you. I miss _us_."

He froze and she pulled back to look at him.

"Sam…" he began.

"Have you gone off me?"

His eyebrows shot up, "Certainly not."

"Well…?"

Foyle closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers. He seemed in agony and she smoothed his cheek with a delicate caress. He whispered huskily, confessing to her, "I'm frightened…"

"Of what?"

"Putting you through it all again."

She nudged his nose with hers, "Oh darling, why didn't you say? Look, we can't know what is going to happen, but we shouldn't stop because of that. I'm willing to take the risk…so…" she paused, finding his eyes, smiling sweetly at him,"...trust me?"

"You know I do…"

"Then come here, you silly man."

She fell on his lips with an unrestrained fervour. He returned the kiss, a small sigh escaping him. Gathering her to him, they rose from the chair, knocking over the chess board.

"I was going to win anyway," Foyle mumbled.

"Were you now?" she teased, nipping at his bottom lip.

He growled and brought them down to the hearthrug, pressing against the length of her. Sighing again as he sank against her soft frame, he sounded relieved.

She touched his cheek, "This is a beautiful thing, don't let what happen spoil it, all right?"

He nodded, kissing her palm.

"We're in this together, remember?" she said softly.

"Yes. I'll keep you closer now…I should have said something earlier."

"You're here now," she murmured, hand between them, gauging the evidence of her words.

He gasped through clenched teeth, her touch feeding a deep rooted fire. It seemed to crumble the last vestiges of doubt he held, and Sam felt relief as he pulled off their clothes with impressive speed.

"Come here with you," she whispered up at him encouragingly. His eyes crinkled into a soft smile at the welcome. "Come inside…"

It was as if all the agony and agitation he'd held inside him was released. His explorations of her were detailed and studied, hands and lips first here, then there. He moved with such grateful intensity, that she felt her bearings shift slightly and she swooned.

"Christopher…" she murmured, "don't ever hide from…_us_… again. I love you too much to lose this…"

He nodded, understanding.

They were not themselves separately, but together another being entirely — the oneness that they had fought so hard for. The _us_ they had created all that time ago resurfaced, peering at them in their souls as if to say, "where've you been, then?" They had allowed too much to get in the way — the complications in life getting in the way of what they had actually achieved: a life _together_. The rekindling burned brighter and brighter, reuniting them strongly.

Sam too let her insecurities and self doubts be washed away in this tide of passion. They were not worth holding onto next to her love for this man. Washed clean of the preceding frustrations and hurts that the last few weeks had been, they each reconnected with the other on some higher plane, recognising and understanding each other perfectly.

Foyle tugged her arms gently above her head, holding her hands, their fingers intertwining. A pulsing energy seemed to emit from the warmth of her palms against his. She felt his muscles against her skin, rippling and rolling in one movement. His face was a picture of tenderness and it made her heart leap.

Letting her head roll back, Sam clutched at him from within, holding him fast. She felt his soul mingling with hers.

She gasped, "Together…"

"Together…" Foyle assured her.

She held his gaze, pinpricks of light dancing across the blue of his eyes. Sam saw herself reflected there and she was left in no doubt of her effect on him or the love he carried for her. They clung, shuddering, to each other, bodies slippery with sweat. Sam couldn't stop trembling for minutes after and Foyle chuckled. He didn't move, and Sam was grateful for the heavy comfort of him.

He nuzzled her, pushing damp hair from her face, "Beautiful darling, I love you so." Foyle wiped away a few stray tears that had slipped from her eyes.

"Good tears?'

"Very good." She smiled weakly at him.

"I felt I was outside of myself," he murmured faintly, as if not sure he trusted what he'd felt.

"I was there with you." She trembled again at the powerful memory and he stirred within her.

The light was going outside, receding quickly, taking their washed sufferings away with it. They were left with a comforting hue of blue-black that sank around them, cloak like, keeping the world at bay for a time.


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: Thank you to those who have stuck with this story - your kind words are much appreciated.

As always, no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Chapter 21

**May 1945**

While Sam spoke, Andrew had been smoking one cigarette after the other in a maddening fashion. When she finished her story Andrew sat back, looking very pale. Through the haze of smoke she saw him fiddling with his lighter. After drinking the teapot dry, going over the details of her marriage to Foyle, their short time away on the Bright's farm, brief mention of the arrival of Andrew's letter, the loss of the baby, and a passing mention to the job at Beverly Lodge which had seen her into 1944, Sam felt tired.

Finally Andrew said, "Shall we go for a walk — I mean, can you…" he waved vaguely at her protruding middle.

"I'm expecting, Andrew, not lame, now come on."

A bit of fresh air was just what they needed. She thought he was looking a bit drained, and the shadows in his now lean face did nothing to help the image. He somehow looked so much older than when she had known him. True, it had been years, but this wearied hardness etched on his features was from far more than the passage of time. _War has changed us all, I suppose_, she thought as they left the inn.

Leaving the car outside on the gravel, they walked slowly down along the beach. Sam slipped an arm through his to steady herself.

"I'm sorry to hear about the…well, that you, er, lost the, er…" he looked at her helplessly, wholly at sea in this unchartered female territory.

"Thank you, Andrew." Sam patted her middle, "Third time's the charm."

"Third?" He cringed. "Oh Sam, I'm so sorry."

She frowned and looked out at the beach before them. Composing her face she said quietly, "It was just after we returned to the Police." He put a hand on hers that gripped his elbow tightly.

"These things happen, Andrew," she said bravely. "I had your father to look after me, thankfully. I sometimes think that perhaps God was showing us that it was not the right time. Now, he or she can come into a more peaceful world."

"It must have been hard on you both." Andrew squeezed her hand. After a moment he added, "Was he hammering away and rebuilding things?"

Sam had to smile, "How did you guess?"

"When Mum died, he built a new garden shed, planted the hedgerows, repainted the entire upstairs, and then some."

"Oh dear…"

"Yes, well…" Andrew cleared his throat. "At least your baby will grow up in a world without war."

She squeezed his arm and smiled at him. "If they _ever_ announce it."

"They will."

They walked on silently for a moment and Sam thought about that cliff top walk with Andrew all those years ago. She reminded him of this and he laughed, "We were talking about Dad climbing out of my bedroom window in his best suit."

"How I wish I'd seen that."

"Well, you must ask him sometime, maybe he'll reenact it for you…"

"Silly," she gave him a push. "You recited the most beautiful little poem off the top of your head. Do you remember?"

"I remember _you_," he smiled softly at her as she looked away self-consciously.

They paused, turning to look in a wide arc at the mouldering huts, the inn, and the crashing waves.

"Do tell me it again, Andrew, I did love it."

He smiled, looking pleased. "Well, actually, I wrote something new recently…just before I left Malta."

"Go on."

He looked at the waves once more, then slowly began.

"It's called All Clear.  
_They've sounded out the last All Clear  
And told us, those who made it here_  
_That very soon we'll hold once more  
Those things that we held dear._  
_Yet nothing's clear to me_  
_I gaze from darkness to a summer haze_  
_And though they part, the clouds of war lead only to uncertain days._"

Sam gripped his arm a bit more firmly. "Do you really think that?"

He shrugged.

"It's very sad."

He groaned, "You're right, sorry Sam — need to watch out for myself. I've been coming over too maudlin for words recently."

"Only natural, Andrew. So much has changed for you." She gazed at him, suddenly realising just how lost he must feel. "Will you stay in Hastings with us?"

Her voice was quite sincere, and he smiled. "Must speak to Dad first. Smooth things over."

"I think you'll find them fairly smooth already…"

Andrew gave a small huff of laughter, not quite sure.

"Come on, Andrew," she said, voice slightly pleading now. _If only he could forgive himself…_

"I remember that letter you wrote me last year…it was jolly decent of you, all things considered."

"Your father was furious initially."

"Oh?"

"Well…I had gone behind his back."

"Glad you did," he said, smiling and giving her a sideways glance. "Anyway, when he wrote sometime later, I began to think…"

"Yes?"

"Well…" Andrew suddenly turned to face at her, "dash it all, Sam, we're not so different, he and I, and suddenly I realised what a prize idiot I'd been. People were losing family left, right and centre — fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, and here I was throwing away…" He swallowed hard, looking away.

"You're both stubborn as anything, I'll give you that."

His face was small and hollow now, emotions choking him slightly. "I want to make things up, I really do. I've not seen him or spoken to him for so long… I'm terrified. What if…"

"Andrew…"

"I feel so _responsible_ for things, now that I've heard your story. I blamed him for everything, you see. All these silly dreams of returning to you were dashed and I was feeling miserable, and I just—"

"Andrew, for goodness sake, we knew _why_ you wrote the ruddy thing. It's no great secret. He didn't reply for so long because he's so damned stubborn too. The pair of you…I'd like to knock your heads together, really I would."

He looked at her sheepishly. "Ah…"

"Andrew, please, we can go over this a hundred times, or we can make our peace and move on. We know why, you know why, and all that matters now is that you're here in one piece."

He nodded slowly, but she could see his worries still ticking away at the back of his mind.

"The only way forward is to get this over with, I think," she said sensibly. "Let's go find your father and have it over and done with. Then you two can fight it out or whatever it is you men do, and we can have some semblance of peace for when they actually announce the end of the war. I'm not having our house turned in to a war zone either, so if you are going to slug it out, you can jolly well go outside."

He gave her a half smile, "Is that how you see us? Great lumbering men?"

"Sometimes, yes. Now, let's get going. What time is it?"

He stretched out his left arm, wristwatch edging past his cuff. "Four o'clock."

"What!? Oh hell."

She began to take hefty strides and Andrew followed, catching her arm. "Do slow down, you'll do yourself an injury. What's the matter?"

"I'm supposed to collect Christopher at quarter past!"

Andrew blinked, unaccustomed to hearing his father's name on her lips.

"Look, we'll ring the station from the inn, get Cooke…what was it…Brooke, to run round for him."

"Good idea."

They were quickly back at the inn and asked the proprietor if they could borrow his telephone.

"I work for the police, you see, sir, and I've forgotten that I was meant to collect my boss."

The proprietor winked at her, "No wonder, with your pilot back safe and sound. I say let your boss wait."

Sam looked over at Andrew in exasperation but he just chuckled behind his hand.

The line was connected and she fairly shouted through the receiver, "Brookie, oh thank goodness."

"Yes, I'm fine…breathless, oh well, I've been racing about, and —" she rolled her eyes as he interrupted.

"Oh do shut up and listen, Brookie dear. I need you to fetch Chris—er, Mr Foyle from the museum right away."

"No, no, nothing like that, I've just been delayed…er…SSAFA work…" She flicked an eye towards Andrew who was still laughing silently. "…he hates to be kept waiting, and I hoped…"

"Yes, at quarter past. Thank you Brookie, you're a darling." She rang off and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Do you speak to all the sergeants like that?" Andrew said, raising an amused eyebrow.

She gave him a look. "Right, we better be getting back so we're there in time for when Christopher comes home."

Andrew's face filled with trepidation again, "All right."

They thanked the proprietor and returned to the car. Sam drove them back to Hastings along the coast road, edging past the multitude of people who seemed to be on the streets once they returned to the Old Town.

"They haven't announced it have they?" Sam asked in concern, thinking they might have missed the end of the war after all.

"I shouldn't think so. There would be more going on. We'll put the wireless on later though."

At Steep Lane, Sam parked and led the way up the steps. "Where are your things, Andrew?"

"I left them with a friend. The one I sold my motorbike to."

"We can collect them later."

She turned to look back at him from the hall, noticing his hesitancy. "Come in, Andrew."

"I suppose my old room has been turned out and done up in yellow for the baby."

He took off his hat and placed it on the stand, running a hand through his hair. Sam smiled at him, the movement reminding her of his father. She placed a hand on his arm, looking at him softly.

"It's just as you left it, ready for when you came home."

A visible lump formed in his throat and he nodded at her, eyes suddenly bright.

"Only Uncle Aubrey did use it when he came to stay last year."

Andrew cleared his throat, following her into the lounge. "I've not met him."

"You'd like him I think. He is a real brick. We are very grateful to him, actually."

He looked at her curiously.

"I'll tell you about him in a minute," she said noticing his look. "First thing's first, sit down and _relax_."

She moved about the lounge easily, moving things. He followed her with his eyes, obviously finding it strange to see her so at home there. She noticed his gaze and grinned at him.

"You're _home_, Andrew. Do sit down. It will be all right, you'll see."

He nodded and obeyed, sitting down in his old chair by the hearth. Digging around in his pocket he pulled out his cigarette case.

"I'd give you a drink but I rather think it best you face him without it."

"Really? I'm gasping for a whiskey."

"You've already had one."

He looked up sharply, saying wryly, "Oh I see — he has been teaching you police methods after all."

"Willing pupil," she said briskly. "Now, I'll put a kettle on. You stay there."

She slipped away to the kitchen, slightly anxious herself, wondering what Foyle's reaction would be.

Andrew called over his shoulder, "You said you would tell me about Uncle Aubrey?"...


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

**April 1944**

_Dearest Samantha,_

_I hope this finds you well, my dear. As I said in my last letter I will be coming down to Hastings for an Ecumenical Conference. Bishop Wood is due to speak on reconciliation and forgiveness in regards to the Germans, a very interesting topic indeed. I'm afraid, however, my hotel has let me down at the last moment. I've tried to find somewhere else, but with all the troop movements, it's proving impossible. I don't suppose you and Christopher would mind putting me up for a few days?_

_I'm taking the bus down and should arrive at 3 o'clock on the 14th. We have been busy here at the moment with Easter. I didn't have a big turn out this year; my congregation seems to be dwindling and Iain has commented on the same. I look forward to seeing you. My best wishes to you and Christopher and all my love,_

_Uncle Aubrey_

* * *

_Dear Uncle Aubrey,_

_We should be delighted to have you to stay! It will be so lovely to see you. I'm working quite a bit just now (all very hush, hush) but Christopher will be here to keep you company. In fact, I rather hope you might drag him to your conference. As I mentioned when I saw you at Christmastime, this business with Andrew is eating away at him. Do you know, it's the only thing we row about? Do you think you might be able to talk with him?_

_Anyway, it will be lovely to have you here. We will see you on the 14th._  
_  
Lots of love,_  
_Sam_

Sam sat back at the dining table, looking over her letter. The ink was quite faint on the last line as if the pen was running out. After a moment's thought she shook her pen, wanting to add a postscript to ask about the lambs. The ink suddenly whooshed out, splattering her neat page.

"Blast!"

She dabbed at it, but it was no good. Sighing heavily as it was her last bit of writing paper, she went through the lounge to Foyle's desk. He had an extensive collection of pens and writing paper of all sorts. He was away fishing for the day. Though he had intended to leave early, she had detained him in the warm comfort of their bed. A good two hours after he had meant to leave, Sam had kissed him goodbye and set to work around the house, catching up on things like her correspondence.

Foyle had offered to stay behind, as it wasn't often she had an entire day away from her work at Beverly Lodge these days. There was definitely a push on somewhere, and the hours were becoming longer and longer. Sam had ushered him out however, knowing how much he treasured his Saturday fishing, and a few hours peace and quiet to catch up on her own things wouldn't go amiss.

"You distract me no end," she'd said to him over a quick cup of tea, grinning at him mischievously.

"I'll take that as a compliment." He had made a fast escape before he could be tempted to stay.

Sam sat down behind his desk in the corner of the lounge. Sitting back comfortably, she looked over the neat and tidy order of the desk's surface. _Seems such a waste to have a lovely desk like this if he never writes to anyone._ She opened a drawer, searching for a writing pad. _Where has he put it?_

She pulled open another drawer, rifling through the debris that seemed to have collected there over the years. Old letters and Christmas cards, invitations to Police dinners…there seemed to be no end. Seeing she would never find the writing pad like this, she picked up the stacks of collected paper and set it on the desk. A small envelope fell from the tottering pile, landing on the floor. With one hand awkwardly holding the pile, she reached down for the envelope. It was just slightly out of reach and as she leaned the entire stack wobbled dangerously before tumbling across the desk, falling around her.

"Damn and blast."

A search for a bit of writing paper had suddenly become a mission. Kneeling down, she began tidying the paper, stacking it neatly to put back in the drawer. She picked up the envelope she had reached for earlier. It had nothing written on it, but there was something inside. She lifted the unsealed flap at the back, peering in curiously.

Inside were small photos in brown and cream. She took them out carefully, the first making her breath catch. It was a young man in uniform, seated and looking to his left. The curve of his face was youthful, but his eyes were old and farseeing. They drew her in and she knew she was looking at Christopher Foyle when he first enlisted. The uniform seemed to swallow him, as if the clothes were wearing _him_. The cap sat at a jaunty angle and she could just make out the darkness of his thick hair under one corner. She stared at it, taking in each line and curve, turning it this way and that to catch the light. _Beautiful man…_

The next photograph showed a group of five men in various stages of uniform, sitting or laying on the grass. In the background were tents and horses. One man poured tea from a tin pot, the others held up their tin cups in cheers to the photographer. Foyle was leaning on an elbow, second to the right, face smiling. On the back was written in a familiar hand, _Training_.

Next was Foyle standing as he still stood today when he rested his weight on one leg — it had been taken in a garden, and his chest was thrown out with importance and his face looked smug. Sam smiled to see it.

A slightly larger black and white photograph was next, showing Christopher and Rosalind on their wedding day. Foyle's hair was longer here and it flopped in the same way Andrew's did. She might have been looking at Andrew, in fact, so similar were the two. The last photograph was of a baby, swaddled in white, fast asleep. She assumed it was Andrew.

Sam sat back on the rug, spreading the photographs in front of her. A sadness descended through her like a heavy stone, and her shoulders drooped. A sudden lump formed in her throat and she shook her head.

Quickly tidying up the fallen papers, she put everything back, including the envelope with the photographs. She opened the last drawer, found the writing paper and sat at Foyle's desk, tapping her finger and thinking. _It wasn't prying_ she told herself, as they had no secrets, but it _was_ the first time she had seen those photographs. Seeing Foyle as a young man was so odd. She had known him only from his eyes, which had stayed the same. He never spoke about his youth, and Sam felt suddenly curious. However, knowing she must get on, she found one of Foyle's pens, and rewrote the letter to Uncle Aubrey.

When she finished and put it aside to dry, the blank writing paper stared up at her. With pen already in hand, it was easy to begin writing once again.

_…Dear Andrew…_

With the photographs weighing heavily on her mind, she wrote, covering the page with sentence after sentence. Finishing, she recapped the pen, and found envelopes and stamps in one of the desk's nooks. Quickly folding the letters, she stuffed them inside the envelopes and slapped stamps on the outside. Throwing on a coat and hat, Sam raced down to the bottom of the lane to post the letters. She had to do it now before she lost her nerve. There was a good chance that Foyle would not be pleased.

* * *

Sam was just making a pot of tea when Foyle returned, heavily laden with his tackle and four fish in his basket.

"Hallo," he kissed her, grinning, "I've been lucky, have a look." He opened the basket and Sam admired them accordingly. She cursed silently to herself, hating to spoil his mood. She would have to wait.

"I ran into Milner — we're going for a drink down the pub later. You don't mind do you?"

"No, it will do you good to have some time with him. Talk about old cases and such. Give him my love."

While he went to put his things away and clean his hands, she poured him a cup of tea, debating with herself if she should tell him about the letter to Andrew. _Maybe Andrew won't reply…maybe it will never get there…maybe…_

They sat together in the lounge, Sam encouraging Foyle to tell her about his day. She was distracted however, still thinking of the letter.

"Oh, by the way: Uncle Aubrey wrote to say his hotel has let him down. I've written to say he could stay here next week."

"I see."

"Well, he did let us stay with him at the Vicarage and I couldn't very well…"

"I don't mind, Sam," Foyle said, looking surprised at her sudden defensiveness. "I like Aubrey, and as family it's the least we can do. Plenty of space…"

Sam bit her lip and fidgeted slightly.

Settling a warm hand on her knee he asked finally, "What is it?"

She started. "What do you mean?"

"Sam, something is on your mind."

"No, no, just thinking about your tea in the oven, it's nothing."

He arched an eyebrow, giving her no quarter.

"I've…also written to Andrew."

Foyle froze. "What?"

"I went looking for some writing paper, if you must know, and accidentally came across some photographs of you from the last war. It made me think of Andrew and I couldn't stand it any longer. Christopher, he _has_ to hear from someone."

Foyle edged back, face suddenly dark. "What does accidentally mean?"

"They fell out when I was trying to find the writing pad."

"Why do you continue to go against me in this, Sam? Do you think writing to him behind my back will help?" Foyle asked. He voice was tight and cold, and Sam thought she would have preferred him to shout.

"With anything else, you know I wouldn't go against you, but Christopher I _must_, don't you see? You're being so stubborn. He is your _son_ and he is fighting in this God awful war and he needs to know we love him."

Her voice was trembling now, hating to defy him and see the pained look come into his face.

"He chose to write what he did. He chose to say we were no longer family. His choice, not mine."

Sam threw up her hands in disgust and sighed, "Honestly, can't you see _you_ have to be the bigger man here?"

Foyle was up and pacing now, hands in his pockets. There seemed to be a sort of battle going on behind his eyes.

Sam stared at him in distress, knowing that however much she nagged, the decision would have to be his own. A sudden smell of burning came from the kitchen and she leapt up, racing through the lounge. A loud clatter, an even louder "damn!" came drifting through with the burnt smell.

Tea towel in hand she came into the lounge, one hand on her hip. Foyle looked up, face still cloudy.

"That's what you get for being so bloody pig headed." Sam's eyes flashed, patience completely gone now that there was a ruined dinner to contend with.

"A waste of a perfectly nice cottage pie." She chucked the towel down on a nearby chair in utter frustration. "You can jolly well fix your own supper."

Having turned away, she missed the sudden softening of Foyle's features and the small smile that crept into his face.

* * *

A/N: It was while rummaging through some old things that I came across my own set of brown and cream photos from WWI. My great grandfather looked a picture in his uniform and it gave some lovely inspiration for this chapter. He drove an ambulance and went on to be a Postman in later life.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

**April 1944**

The stairs creaked mercilessly, followed by the clunk of the pipes. Sam woke and knew he was home. It was late and she sighed, the disagreement over the letter to Andrew playing over in her mind again. She heard Foyle slip in to their room quietly and was aware of his weight on the edge of the bed as he sat down. She smelled his aftershave mingled with sweat as he unbuttoned his shirt. Knowing his exact movements of undressing beside her in the dark, her heart quickened before she reminded herself she was annoyed with him.

Sam remained still, pretending to be asleep. Her breathing gave her away however, and Foyle whispered casually, "Milner says hello."

Seeing there was no point in ignoring him, she murmured back, "how is he?"

"Unhappy under Meredith's command and thinking of leaving Hastings."

"Poor Paul."

"We had a nice chat anyway, over a few pints. Told him to think about his decision before doing anything rash."

"You would say that."

She heard him pause a moment before continuing to pull off his shirt.

"Sorry, er…about, the, um, cottage pie."

Sam glared fiercely into the dark and said nothing.

The mattress moved, and she felt him lie back against the pillow and sigh as he relaxed beside her. "So…" Foyle shifted slightly, his arm touching her shoulder, "…what did you write him then?"

Sam clutched at her pillow and huffed, "About how you're both bloody fools."

"R-right…"

She knew he was chewing his lip, and her heart beat faster once more.

"Anything else?"

"And that I love you both, for better or worse as the case may be."

"Ah."

The photo of the uniformed young man standing in the garden came to her mind, and she felt the lump rise into her throat again. Gripping the eiderdown she began, "I saw those photos of you from the last war. You were so young…"

"They were given to my mother," Foyle said softly, almost reverently. "I found them in an old book of hers…well, years and years ago now. I'd nearly forgotten about them, to be honest."

"I recognised you from your eyes." Sam's voice was a tight whisper, emotion trembling at the edge of her words. "You were younger than Andrew is now. You had a family that loved you and you came back to a woman you made a life with. The woman who had your son." There were tears slipping past her nose now, and Sam turned towards him.

"It broke my heart to think Andrew was all alone somewhere in this war, maybe thinking no one was waiting for him."

"Well, that isn't the case, and he'll realise it once he —"

"No, Christopher, he won't."

Sam sat up, hair falling across her shoulders. She stared at him, just able to make out his features. The anguish on his face made her breath in sharply, knowing she was about to pain him further.

"He could be anywhere. He might be dead or injured or captured. Yes, he wrote a bloody stupid letter that hurt us both. No doubt it hurt him as well, after the fact. But he's your boy, Christopher. He needs to know you are still behind him. You may never get the chance to set things right again. You would never forgive yourself. Can't you see I'm trying to help you?"

To her dismay, Foyle covered his face with a hand. The odd strangled sound that came from his lips made her realise with an awful relief that she had won. She put a cool hand on his arm, saddened to know that it had come to this — harsh words in the dark to jolt him into sense.

"Oh Sam…" He sighed heavily. "It isn't just about forgiving him, I'm trying to forgive myself too…"

"For what?"

"I've let him down; should have been there more after Rosalind…and I just…I just…I..."

His voice was trembling and quiet. She slid closer, "Christopher…"

"I thought perhaps I deserved this," he frowned, passing a hand across his forehead, "I don't know what to do…I feel mad with worry, and yet I can't seem to…" He faltered and Sam took his hand to hold tightly.

"Just let him know that you love him. I know it isn't very English to express yourself like that to your son, but Christopher, he _needs_ to know."

Hanging his head he sighed, "Oh Sam, I've been such a fool."

"I've only been saying it for months, but yes, you jolly well are, my darling man." She leaned in, "If you don't speak to me about what's going on in _here_," she murmured, kissing his forehead, "then how can I help you?"

"I'm so sorry, Sam. You've tried to help and I've pushed you away like I said I would never do again."

"You must never think we deserve pain, Christopher. That isn't any use. You've got a chance to set it right, and you must take it."

He nodded, breathing heavily through his nose. "He's all I have left of Rosalind…I can't bear to lose him, Sam."

Foyle put a hand to his face again as it crumpled. Sam nestled herself against him, nudging him slightly.

"Do you want to know what else I wrote?"

Through hitching breaths, Foyle nodded.

"I told him that we loved him and missed him; hoped that he was all right and giving Jerry hell."

She took his hand away from his face and smoothed his cheek.

"I told him that we are family and always will be."

His bottom lip trembled, and he began to worry it with his teeth. Sam leaned closer. "I said that you were both stubborn as the day is long and that fighting over a pretty girl is no cause at all for this nonsense."

She put a hand on his bare chest, looking carefully at him.

"And, Christopher, I told him that I love you more than anything in the world and seeing you fight with yourself over this was so very hard. Do make it up with him, Christopher. Please."

Foyle pulled her to him and she felt him nod against her shoulder. He snuffled into her neck, murmuring, "I will, I will. I'm so sorry."

"I love you, darling."

"What would I do without you, Sam?" he whispered through the dark, finding her lips with overwhelming relief.

* * *

The day was fine, though Foyle suspected it wouldn't last. He strolled down to the village to meet Uncle Aubrey off the bus, fiddling absently with his tie as he walked. Though he and Sam had written to Andrew, and it was a relief to have done so, it still weighed heavily on his mind. _What if he never wrote back?_

The green and cream coloured bus roared up the road, and he crossed to where it stopped, looking carefully for Aubrey.

"My dear Mr Foyle," came a cheerful voice from behind a rather large woman.

"Hullo!" Foyle smiled as Sam's favourite uncle stepped off the bus. He was dressed in his usual black clergyman's attire and dog collar, perspiring slightly from the close air of the bus. "How are you?"

They shook hands and Foyle reached for the older man's case, "Shall I take that?"

"Very kind, thank you. Yes, not a bad trip, though I've never seen quite so many troops on the move. Were you waiting long?"

"Not at all."

"How are you? How's Samantha?"

"We're both fine, thank you. You'll see her later."

"Good, good. I look forward to catching up…preferably over a cup of tea. I'm parched."

Foyle smiled again and led the way back up the hill towards Steep Lane. He had always liked Aubrey and often felt he got on better with him than his brother, Iain. Aubrey had the advantage of not being his father-in-law, of course, but Foyle found he was also a very practical and compassionate man with a wonderful sense of humour. Sam adored him, and Foyle could understand why.

Once the two men were seated behind a tea service, Aubrey launched into his reason for visiting Hastings. The Ecumenical Conference was set to begin tomorrow and he was enthusiastic to hear the main speaker, Bishop Francis Wood.

"It's this question of total and unconditional surrender, you see. We all know that Germany has lost the war — it's just a question of how many more innocent lives have to be lost before they accept it."

Foyle nodded to show he was listening and took a tentative sip from his steaming cup.

"Take the bombing of Hamburg for instance. Can we condone it? _Should_ we condone it? 'Thou shalt not kill' — the Bible makes it pretty clear."

Foyle chewed his lip thoughtfully, staring into his tea.

"Do you have any sugar," Aubrey asked suddenly, breaking Foyle's train of thought.

With a huff of bemusement, Foyle said, "Afraid not."

"Must be difficult to keep any for long with Sam about," he said with a twinkle and Foyle smiled. _How very true…_

"Anyway, if you're sticking to moral absolutes," Aubrey began again, launching back into the previous discussion, "you come to love your enemy. That's the point we are at now, except we aren't loving them, we're bombing the hell out of them."

Foyle shifted slightly in his chair, motioning with his hand towards the other man, "And where do _you_ stand?"

"I'm behind Francis Wood. He's preaching reconciliation and forgiveness…a negotiated peace."

"Is this the right time do you think?"

"He won't worry about that — the real question is how do we get our message across? We are _one church_, one family in Christ. It isn't a very popular idea at the minute of course, but…" Aubrey paused to look carefully at Foyle. "Speaking of reconciliation…"

Foyle bit his lip. _Here we go…_

"I might as well be frank with you, Christopher. Samantha wrote to me about what happened with Andrew. She's worried about you."

Holding up a hand, Foyle said, "I know, she told me. She also wrote to Andrew. We've, er, talked it through."

"Glad to hear it. And?"

"And I've written him."

"Good. We must shine a light on our fears — it is the only way to face them. It isn't an easy thing, forgiveness, but God is there to help us through. You may remember in the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus tells Peter that _we should forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven._ Forgiveness is never ending for us as sinners. Forgiveness of others as well as ourselves. It can take time, however."

"I'm beginning to realise that."

Aubrey drained his tea cup before saying softly, "I'm very pleased that you and Samantha communicate, Christopher. Too often I see the opposite. Faith and trust is not just limited to God, don't you think?"

"I would agree." Foyle looked uncomfortable for a moment before adding, "Though I haven't, er, always communicated well…I dread to think what kind of man I would be without Samantha. She has made me, um, well, understand…" he faltered, clearing his throat. He raised his eyes to look at Aubrey.

The two men met each other's gazes squarely, and the warmth and cheerfulness of Aubrey's look gave Foyle a sense of calm. Eventually he said, "I do thank you for your concern, Aubrey."

"I hope you don't think I'm sticking my nose in where it's not wanted, dear fellow."

Foyle held up his hand again, "I don't think that. As my lovely wife has so aptly pointed out, I've been a bit of a fool."

Aubrey chuckled.

"I just hope he writes back."

"I will pray for that, Christopher. " Aubrey stood and went to his case. "Now, I've got something for you. I've brought it up from the country. A bottle of my home made wine for you and Samantha."

Foyle looked at it with masked horror. The Greengage wine was nothing short of deadly. With a twitch of his lips he said, "V-very kind of you. Thank you."

Aubrey chuckled again. "You'll come with me to the conference tomorrow? There are some public forums you might find interesting."

"Yes, why not."

"Good man." Aubrey poured more tea and sat back contentedly.

Foyle regarded the man across from him with something akin to fondness. Here was a man who knew when to talk and when to leave things unsaid, and he liked that. Aubrey didn't hammer on about things, but instead spoke in statements with unequivocal belief that the listener could take or leave. He understood but didn't judge.

As ever, Foyle felt incredibly grateful to have Uncle Aubrey on his side.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

**April 1944**

The Plume of Feathers was full and smoky when Foyle spotted Sam from his perch between the bar and fireplace. He breathed in sharply, admiring how beautiful she looked in the soft light. Her cheeks were rosy from the long cycle ride, and he loved how her long tresses danced on her shoulders as she walked. He waved, her face lighting up when she saw him. Uncle Aubrey turned and smiled as she came towards the them, bouncing up to sit on a stool beside him.

"Hallo, my dear. They've released you at last?"

"Yes, sorry I'm a bit late. How are you? Did you both have a nice day?"

Aubrey launched into details of the talks he'd attended while Foyle attracted the attention of the barman and ordered Sam a sherry.

"Were you aware you've got a German priest here?" Aubrey asked.

"A Jerry? — He's probably spying on us." Sam took the sherry from Foyle's hand and smiled softly at him.

"No, not at all, Samantha," said Aubrey with some severity. "He's a friend of Bonhoeffer."

Sam sipped her drink meekly before asking, "And who's he?"

Foyle surprised her by explaining that Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German Protestant who had spoken out against Hitler. "He was in London for two years from 1933 — he wrote quite a bit and gave talks I seem to remember."

Aubrey looked pleased at Foyle's knowledge, and nodded enthusiastically, "Yes indeed. You'll be sorry to hear he insisted on returning to Germany; he's in prison now."

"You amaze me, Christopher," Sam said with a hint of amusement.

Foyle shrugged, turning his lips downwards in a non committal motion. He felt a tingle of pleasure however, at the thought that he could still surprise Sam. A sort of warmth settled comfortably in his chest and he tapped his pint glass with one finger, thoughts already racing ahead.

"You'll come again tomorrow?" Aubrey asked, still enthusiastic.

"I can't think of anything more dull," Sam said irreverently. Foyle smirked and hastily hid behind his glass.

"That's because you are a wicked girl and a disappointment to all your uncles," Aubrey said with a short laugh, giving her arm a pat and looking at her somewhat proudly as if he enjoyed her outspokenness. "Didn't we drag you with us to Scotland once? Edinburgh wasn't it?"

"Yes. It was freezing and you all drank rivers of whiskey."

Aubrey laughed again. "So, can you tell us what you're doing with yourself, out to all hours?"

"You know I can't tell you anything except I'm making a _vital_ contribution to the war effort." She grinned at them both, "And it's a lot less exciting that it sounds."

"I'll drink to that," Aubrey said, smiling. "You both must miss the police?"

"Not a bit," said Foyle quickly.

"No…" Sam began, "er, me either…"

Aubrey chuckled to himself. "Another pint, Christopher?"

Sometime later when they had returned to Steep Lane and said goodnight to Uncle Aubrey, Sam followed Foyle into the lounge. He was checking the blackout and moving a few things around for the morning. She came up softly beside him, slipping an arm around his middle.

"Do you know, I rather like you in jumpers," said Sam, fingering the green wool over his chest.

Foyle swept her into his arms, "And I love you in this," he rubbed the silky blue material of her shirt between his thumb and forefinger, "so soft…like you…" he kissed her, pressing her to him.

"Darling, really, we can't possibly…" she broke off as he swallowed her words. His tongue traced the outline of her lips and she melted into his embrace.

"I thought about you all day…" Foyle murmured, warm hands pressing through the material of her shirt.

Sam smiled sweetly at him, "So you didn't pay attention to the talks?"

"I did, but it made me think of you, you see. Sat there in draughty rooms full of men who believe in peace and forgiveness so strongly…I was enclosed with them there as a fellow Christian. I suddenly saw what peace might mean for the future of our world. For you and I; for _our_ future. I don't know how to explain it, but I felt very moved, Sam."

She nodded, "I do understand. There is something terribly comforting being surrounded by people full of faith. Gives you a sort of hope, doesn't it?"

Foyle nuzzled against her cheek, "I knew you would understand what I meant."

"Well as the Vicar's daughter…" She held him a bit tighter, hearing the change in his voice.

"They spoke of forgiveness in such a way that is almost hard to fathom. When I think of who we are fighting in this war…the enemy…the same that I fought all those years ago, I cannot begin to approach forgiveness. I've hardened my heart to it because they took away my friends…they've stolen the youth of my son…"

He took a shuddering breath, "Those photographs you found…the man who took the one of me in the garden…he died shortly after. We found him in tangled in barbed wire…he'd bled to death…"

Sam put a hand to the back of his head, fingers slipping between the soft curls there. "Oh how awful, Christopher."

"Yet, I sat there today, trying to open my heart to forgiveness; towards our common enemy, and also to myself and Andrew."

Foyle sniffed, tucking his chin into her shoulder. "It put things into perspective a bit. The men speaking today and men like your Uncle Aubrey give me hope, Sam. Ever so much hope."

She was moved to hear him speak so, and she kissed him with a sudden passion. "I love you so much, Christopher. You are a wonderful man."

"I don't know that I always warrant such a statement, but thank you, darling." He gave her a small, half smile, "I am so grateful to you."

His gaze became intense and he slipped a hand to the back of her skirt.

She reached back to grasp his wrist and hissed, "_Not here!_ In cottages, rivers, hearths, yes, but _not_ when my Uncle Aubrey is just upstairs."

Foyle chuckled and twisted himself from her grip. He let his hands wander up, tugging carefully at the fabric of her shirt. His lips traced her cheek down to her throat, whispering along her shoulder as he pushed aside her silky collar.

"Really?" he said huskily.

He smiled to see her eyes close as she leaned her head back.

"Trust me, Sam?"

She gave a soft moan of acquiescence, "What's a girl to do…?"

* * *

The weather had turned wet and cold, so when Foyle joined Aubrey at the conference on the third day he had donned his long wool coat again. They walked towards the atrium along the paved courtyard companionably.

"You're sure you won't join us for the afternoon session as well? There's to be an interesting talk on how we bring the message of One Church to the masses — how to make plans for after the war…"

"But surely that would happen in time?"

"No, that's the point you see, Christopher, it has to happen now —"

He was cut off as an official car drew up near them. A uniformed man stepped out, pulling his jacket straight. "Mr Foyle."

"Uh oh," Foyle whispered under his breath, a sense of unease washing through him.

"What is it?" Aubrey asked, also whispering and leaning towards him.

Foyle sighed, "Trouble."

"Oh." Aubrey glanced at Foyle with a slight twinkle in his eye, "I'll leave you to it then."

Foyle gave a short laugh, "Well, thank you." He chewed his cheek as Aubrey drifted away discreetly before turning his face towards the source of the 'trouble.'

"Assistant Commissioner," Foyle began, nodding a hello.

"How are you?" The uniformed man looked distinctly uncomfortable as they exchanged pleasantries.

Coming to the point, the AC motioned with a nod of his head, "I'd like to speak with you privately." They walked further along the courtyard and went into one of the unoccupied rooms. "Meredith's been shot," he said without preamble.

Foyle froze. Feeling slightly stunned he asked slowly, "How…how is he?"

"He's dead. Milner was with him. He's fine, but we can't even be sure who was the target."

Shaking his head, Foyle tossed his hat on to the table before them.

"I know why you're here and the answer is no."

He looked up at the AC, eyes clear and blue. Seeing the desperation in the other man's face, he knew suddenly, deep down, that this time there was not room for the word "no". Not if police officers were being killed in the streets_…his streets…_

He sighed heavily. _So much for the quiet life…_


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

**April 1944**

"I'm not sure if I like the idea of you going back if senior police officer's are being shot on the streets of Hastings."

"That's precisely _why_ I must go back, Sam."

"I know…" Sam agreed dispiritedly. "I'll just be worried about you, that's all."

"You weren't before?"

"No, of course not." She grinned at him, "Well, perhaps a bit. But I was there as your driver, ready to get you out of any scrapes."

"Oh I see." Foyle rolled his eyes and knotted his tie a bit more tightly.

"Let me look at you." Sam stood before him, scrutinising him carefully. Her fingers trailed over his tie. "You'll do."

She touched his cheek, finding his eyes. In a low voice she added, "I rather like you in three piece suits as well."

Foyle gave her a soft look. Jamming his trilby on his head, he gave her a quick kiss, "Be good; see you tonight," and was gone.

Strolling down to the station gave him time to think how he was to approach this situation. It had been a year since his departure from the police and goodness knows what had changed in the interim. As he came through the station doors a short while later, his stomach tightened in apprehension. Brookie looked up from his post behind the desk and a broad grin split his face. _At least some things never change_ Foyle mused, rather pleased to see the young man.

"Mr Foyle! Good morning, sir. Nice to see you. 'ow is Mrs Foyle?"

"Hallo, Brookie. She's well thanks." He came around the desk, "Anything for me?"

"Not at the moment, sir. Well, I must say it is nice to see someone at the top has shown a bit of sanity. It will be good to have you back, sir."

Foyle pivoted slowly on his heel, face impassive and voice light as he said, "It's only temporary, and if I hear you speak of any senior officer like that again in front me I'll have you transferred and demoted. Better still, I'll have you discharged. All right?"

Brookie drew himself up, tucking his middle in and drawing his shoulders back, the smirk on his face melting. "Sir."

"Good." Foyle carried on down the corridor to his old office, smiling to himself as he heard Brookie's amused voice drifting behind him, "Well, nice to have 'im back…"

Entering his old office brought a wave of memories for Foyle, and he sighed heavily as he looked around the room. He hoped Milner would have some ideas, as he wasn't entirely sure where to begin with this case. He moved a photo of DCS Meredith and his family from its prominent position on his old desk. _We'll start with the wife, of course._

He thought of Sam and his stomach tightened again. Until they had this case sorted, she had every right to worry. Everything here in the station seemed to remind him of her, and he found himself listening for her approach like he'd done a year before. It would be strange without her here. He'd have to endure Brookie's driving for now…

* * *

Sam got the fright of her life as she came down the stairs at Beverly Lodge, arms full of papers and books, when she saw Foyle shaking hands with Wing Commander Forster. She very nearly dropped the entire load as she stopped short. Looking around her, she noticed luckily no one had seen her reaction. As if by some deep connection, Foyle seemed to know she was there, as he looked up, caught her eye and nodded ever so slightly. She remained rooted to the spot and watched as the two men walked away, Forster talking as they went.

_Good, he's here about Henry Scott_ she thought. They had discussed the case at length the previous evening, Sam able to supply some of her own information from a friend of Henry's. "Jane is convinced Henry didn't kill himself," she'd told Foyle, "you must speak with her."

It was thrilling to be back on a case, she thought, even though she wasn't his driver any more. She had pestered him for all sorts of information and about how things at the station were going. He had been fairly vague, but she thought it was exciting nonetheless. Sam had been pleased to see that Foyle was slightly more his old self now he had the bit between his teeth. She could almost see the cogs turning away in his mind as he puzzled over the case.

Although Foyle had protested that it was only a temporary assignment to solve Meredith's murder, she secretly hoped that he would stay on. It would do him good to be back in a familiar environment doing what he did best. It was undeniable that he was a brilliant police officer; if only the bureaucratic nonsense from the brass would remain at bay and let him get on with things. He had never been one to 'play the game' and Sam knew he found the interference of his superiors more unhelpful than of any use.

Though Sam hadn't yet brought it up, she hoped that he would want her back as his driver. Of course things were different now as she was his wife; maybe the force would frown upon such things. The men who came up with these nonsensical rules wouldn't much care for it, certainly. There was a nagging doubt in the back of her mind that the other chaps at the station might not like it either — might think she would repeat what was said over cups of tea to the boss. Not that she would of course, but it was reasonable for them to think it.

No, she would let Foyle decide what was best. She might drop a few hints though…anything had to be better than organising mountains of paperwork each day…

* * *

At the end of the week, Foyle was knee deep in his investigation, but made time to walk Aubrey to the bus stop. It was drizzling, leaving everything rather damp and grey. He carried the older man's case and listened to him recap the highlights of the conference as they walked down the hill.

"It was very good to see you my dear fellow," Aubrey said as they neared the bus stop. "I am glad you came along to the conference, and grateful to you and Samantha for putting me up...and for putting up with me!"

Foyle chuckled, "It's always a pleasure, Aubrey. I am glad I was at the talks too. It has left me with plenty to think about."

"Not that you need any more on your plate, eh?" Aubrey said. "By the way, I did visit Mrs Meredith, as you asked."

"Oh yes, do any good?"

"I'm not sure. Perhaps. Having someone to blame - God, the church… It made me realise, Christopher, that you are absolutely right."

Foyle glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

"These talks of repentance and reconciliation…it's all very well. But perhaps what we need just now is a bit more humility. The church will be there at the end of the war, and people will find us again."

Foyle smiled at him and nodded.

"We can't drag people to places they don't want to go."

"Indeed," Foyle began, "and yet, er, sometimes a …. push in the right direction doesn't go amiss…"

The two men smiled at each other, and Aubrey nodded sagely. The sharp sound of wet bicycle brakes being applied made them look up. Sam jumped down from her cycle, smiling broadly at them.

"Hallo!"

"Come to give me a kiss goodbye, my dear?"

Sam threw an arm around him in an embrace, kissing his cheek. "Goodbye, dear Uncle Aubrey. It was lovely to see you. Do have a safe trip back."

"I shall, my dear. You look after Christopher now. Will you be going back to the Police as well?"

Sam eyed Foyle carefully, "We haven't discussed it."

"Ah well, perhaps for the best," Aubrey said with a grin.

The bus started its engine, roaring to life behind them.

"Better be going. Best of luck to you both." Aubrey climbed aboard, waving to them once he was seated.

Sam slipped an arm through Foyle's, leaning in to say, "Don't you think he has a point?"

"About what?"

"About me."

"About you?"

Foyle gave her a sideways look, clearly enjoying his subtle teasing.

"About having me back in the Police."

He leaned in, kissing her temple, "Thought about little else, you know."

"Jolly good…_sir_…" She grinned and leaned in to kiss him properly. They were interrupted by the beep of a car horn coming up the lane. Brookie was grinning mischievously at them from a police car.

Sam went red and dropped Foyle's arm as Brookie pulled the brake and winked wickedly at her. Foyle moved forwards to the car as Milner stepped out.

"Hallo, sir." Milner looked over at Sam, "Hi Sam, how are you?"

"Fine, thank you, Paul." She smiled at him, ignoring Brookie's soft laughter from behind the wheel.

Milner turned back to Foyle, "I've got some news that might interest you. Thought you might like a lift."

"Thank you," Foyle nodded at him, coming around to the back door. He turned ever so slightly back to Sam standing with her bicycle. "See you later," he mouthed, giving her a sweet smile and doffing his hat.

She grinned at him and stood waving as the car bumped down the lane.

That evening, when Foyle came home tired out after his long day, Sam was stood waiting for him in her MTC uniform.

"What, er, are you doing, Sam?" Foyle asked, shrugging off his long coat, eyeing her up down with an appreciative look.

"Making sure it still fits and nothing needs mending before tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow then?"

Sam looked at him with mock annoyance that he was still teasing her. "Well, I presumed you'd been needing a driver now you're back to work."

Foyle chewed his lip a moment, watching her squirm, before saying mischievously, "Well, jolly good. 8 o'clock start?"

She was beside him within a few seconds, pressing herself against him. "Don't tease, I can't bear to see Brookie driving you when I could be there."

Foyle breathed her in, murmuring, "Everything single thing in that ruddy police station reminds me of you." He found her lips, "Oh I've missed having you by me, Sam, I really have."

He didn't mean just the last week either, and she sensed this. She nibbled at his ear, "We're alone again and I'm by you _now_…"

Foyle leaned back to look at her, drinking in the sight of her in her MTC uniform. A sudden roguish look came into his face and she grinned back playfully. He rested a hand on her top button. "If I'd known you still had the uniform…"

Sam laughed out loud, "Really, Christopher?"

To his dismay, Foyle found himself going red, "Yes, well, it, er, I mean I suppose I…" he stopped.

She tugged at his tie, teasing him, "Yes?_ Sir_?"

Foyle gulped, saying slowly, "I fell in love with you in that uniform and it makes me think of…" he paused before ending lamely, "things…"

"Devilish thoughts and all that?" She was grinning broadly at him, enjoying this secret confession.

"I suppose so," Foyle said, fingers already undoing the buttons of the outer jacket.

She reached between them and began plucking at his waistcoat. "Wait a mo'," she said suddenly. Turning from their position in the hall, she went to the hat stand and reached up for his old, battered green trilby that he only used now when fishing.

"I fell in love with _you_ in this, so would you…?"

Foyle chuckled and let her push it onto his head. "Hmm, yes."

Sam looked at him with a smile which he suddenly crushed, leaning in to capture her mouth and wrap her in his arms. They shuffled back against the wall, and Sam let out a sound that made his knees nearly buckle. The pounding of his blood was loud in his ear and he felt his spine tingling with this fulfilling of their fancies.

He pulled her away from the wall, moving towards the stairs. But Foyle found that seeing Sam going up the steps before him was too much. He grabbed her waist and pinned her gently down on the third step. Fingers scrabbling for the hem of her skirt made Sam protest in a low voice, "You'll get it all untidy for tomorrow…"

"I'll make sure you're presentable," he murmured huskily. The skirt was bunched around her hips now and Foyle groaned in her ear, desire overwhelming him.

"Whatever's the matter?"

"I must be the luckiest man in the world…"

"Oh yes?" she purred.

His need for her was thrilling to them both and Sam met him eagerly and willingly at each foray. The hall floor looked rather like a massacre of clothes, littered in indiscriminate piles, the old, green trilby joining the fallen only at the very last.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

**May 1945**

The sound of a key sliding home and the snick of the latch made them both start. Andrew jumped up, looking at Sam rather wildly.

"Wait. I'll go tell him so he doesn't die of shock, all right?"

Andrew nodded, words suddenly lost to him now the time had come.

Sam went quickly into the hall, closing the lounge door. The front door was just opening and Foyle came through, bringing a small gust of a warm evening breeze with him.

"You're all right?" He asked with concern. "Brookie said you were caught up with SSAFA work but you sounded breathless…"

"Christopher," she began, putting a hand on his arm, "I've been with Andrew all afternoon."

The words didn't seem to register, so she added, "Andrew is home, Christopher, he's here in the lounge and wants to see you."

Sam found that tears were coming in to her eyes and she blinked furiously. "Andrew is safe. He's here. We talked all afternoon — about everything. He's so desperately sorry, Christopher, and terrified beyond words to see you. He's so worried about what you think of him."

Foyle nodded mutely, a look of comprehension slowly spreading across his face.

She led him to the lounge and watched him go through the door. Andrew was stood with his hands in his pockets, face a palette of emotions. Foyle stopped, hat in hand, staring at him and finally registering what he saw before him. The two men looked at each other, eyes filling. Andrew made a sort of squeak, but no words came.

With his head bent, Foyle stepped towards him, wrapping the young man in his arms. Andrew burst into tears on his shoulder, gripping his father tightly. Putting a hand up to cup the back of his head like he had done when Andrew was a boy, Foyle soothed him with soft murmurs. He too was crying, blinking and looking up as if having a private conversation with God.

Sam stepped back, not wanting to intrude. She sniffed and wiped her face on the sleeve of her cardigan. Why she was crying, she couldn't say, but she thought it was a mix of relief and happiness. This had been long overdue, and now that they were all together again a sense of calm seemed to come over the house, breaking all tensions. She felt utterly exhausted from such an emotional day. The talking had worn her out more than she had realised, and now that the two men were reunited, all she wanted was to sleep. Closing the door to the lounge, she went quietly up the stairs, grateful and relieved.

* * *

The room was dark and her head felt heavy still with sleep when she awoke sometime later. She wasn't sure what had woken her. There was a softness to the air and she felt very aware of the weight of the eiderdown on her shoulders. She was warm and comfortable.

"It's only me," said Foyle's voice from the dark.

Sam put a hand out and closed her eyes again, feeling him sat next to her on the bed.

"I've brought you a cup of tea." A soft caress lingered on her cheek before pushing the hair from her face.

"Hmm, thank you. You've a lovely beside manner…" she murmured, eyes still closed.

She heard him chuckle softly, the caress of his hand bringing her into wakefulness.

"What time is it?"

"Far past supper time."

"Thought so — I'm famished." She opened an eye, "How are you both?"

"We're fine. _He's_ fine. We've talked."

Sam dragged open both eyes and saw Foyle come into dim focus. She sat up a bit and he handed her the cup of tea.

"We didn't resort to slugging it out, so never fear."

His eyes were twinkling at her and she noticed a deep sense of peace in his features. Grasping his hand, she whispered, "I'm so glad, Christopher."

"Did you talk it all through?" she added, taking a tentative sip.

"We did."

"And you, Christopher? Are _you_ fine?"

"I am, yes. It seems a bit surreal to have him here."

When he didn't elaborate, she looked at him inquisitively, "Surely you have more to say than that? What did you talk about?"

Foyle's mouth turned downwards into a soft smile, "_You_."

"Oh."

"No, but we did talk about it all — got it all out in the open. The scotch helped I think, but it's done. We can now move on and be a family again."

Sam heard the catch in his voice and she set the tea down on the bedside table. "Come here, darling man."

Pulling him to her, he sank against her shoulder, nuzzling into her neck as he was wont to do. "Oh Sam, I'm so relieved. He's safe and sound… he's home for good…" His emotions were no longer masked and she felt his tears, hot against her skin.

Running her fingers through the curls at the base of his neck, she asked, "Where is he now?"

"Asleep." Foyle pulled back to rest his forehead on hers. "You've both worn each other out this afternoon."

"I told him everything that had happened since I last saw him. There was a lot to say."

"I think perhaps you should both stay home tomorrow. I don't like the idea of you driving about the countryside anyway, Sam. Not in your condition."

Though she was set to protest, she bit back her words. "Perhaps you're right. I am awfully tired. He'll need company for a bit anyway. Until he's himself again."

"Thank you, Sam." Foyle looked at her gratefully, glad she hadn't objected to his suggestion. He let a hand slide to her middle, cradling the protruding bump. "Not long now."

She nodded. "Lay with me for a bit? I'm so comfortable, I can't bear the thought of moving."

Foyle stood and came around the bed, pulling off his shoes as he went and slipping off his tie. He nestled against her carefully, tucking her against him under the eiderdown. A warm hand snaked around her middle.

"Goodness you're big now, I can hardly reach around you."

She elbowed him in the ribs.

His lips were at her ear, "But I love you, no matter."

Closing her eyes, she leaned back, enjoying the feel of his broad chest against her back. She imagined she could feel his heart beating and it lulled her back into sleepiness.

"Though I am constantly grateful to you, Sam, I am particularly indebted to you for brining my son home."

She turned her head slightly to see him. "We all had a part to play, Christopher."

"Still." He nudged her with his nose.

"Love you, darling," she whispered, closing her eyes, letting the warmth of his love and protection cocoon her. She drifted back off to sleep in his arms — all was right with their world…


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: Well, here we are at the penultimate chapter of this story. Many,_ many_ thanks to those who've stuck with it and been so kind as to leave comments.

* * *

Chapter 27

**May 1945**

On the edges of sleep he heard the noise again. It filtered through the waves of his consciousness until it sounded again, jolting him awake. Foyle dragged his head up, looking around sleepily, thinking it might be Sam. The rest of his senses awoke and he felt her warmth against his shoulder. _Who…or what then?_

He suddenly remembered and he grinned. Sam breathed heavily through her nose in a sigh.

Foyle looked over at her, "I forgot how loud he could be."

Sam smiled sleepily, "Do tell him to hush won't you?"

Foyle looked down at her dozing form. After sleeping a few more hours the evening before they had spent most of the night talking together, the hours slipping by one after the other in quick succession. _No wonder she's exhausted_, he thought.

Slipping from her side he pulled on his robe and went out on to the landing. Another soft bang, followed by a slightly louder crash came from below and he rolled his eyes. Padding down the stairs and coming through the lounge he found Andrew in the kitchen in his shirt sleeves, raiding the pantry. His back was to Foyle, shirt tucked in loosely, braces hanging limply by his hips.

Foyle watched him a moment, revelling in his son's impatient movements and feeling the glow of gratefulness and love bubbling in his chest. _He's home! He's safe!_ So often had he felt the sharp knife of tension rearing its head, cutting through the centre of his chest when he thought of Andrew; he was relieved that it would now slowly heal with the knowledge of seeing his boy whole in front of him.

They had indeed talked it all through last night, not without some heated emotion on Foyle's part. It hadn't been easy for either of them, laying out mistakes like cards on a table. Andrew's complete and total dismay at his actions had relieved Foyle to some extent — _there is still some of the boy I raised there before me in the man I see…_ Their long talk had been more healing than heartbreaking, and as usual in the case of talking things through, it allowed no stones to be left unturned. Foyle nearly felt like a new man for it. They had each admitted their short comings.

Mostly however, Foyle was terribly grateful to see his boy again. He could see his son was changed. Evidence lingered in the sharp edges of the young man, flesh thin and tired; the spark that had once bounced from his eyes was not quite yet restored, and Foyle felt sad to know that his boy had seen terrible things. It left him with a feeling of helplessness and he knew from his own experiences with war that only time helped to heal most things.

They had discussed Sam at length, finding that they both felt indebted to her in their own ways.

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her, Dad," Andrew had said at one point.

"Me either, son, me either."

"You look magnificent together." Andrew nodded to the small photo on the mantel piece.

To both their surprise, Foyle had gone slightly red and murmured a self conscious, "yeah…"

He had added after some silence, "Andrew, listen, I need to say something — this is important, all right?"

"Yes, go on." Andrew had looked concerned and Foyle motioned towards himself with a vague gesture. "I'm not a young man; there will come a time…when I'm not around any more. I hope not a for a long time, but will you promise me…will you look after Sam? And the child? We're all family now and I need to know that I can ask this of you."

"_Of course_, Dad. You needn't ask. I will always be here — for you both."

They had left it at that, though Foyle had noticed Andrew ruminating over this prospect with a grim face. He seemed to realise how terribly unfair it was for Sam to enter into this knowing she would likely be left alone when she was only just becoming old. It cost Foyle something to say it — he had felt that old twinge of guilt, but he was glad he had asked all the same.

Giving himself a shake, Foyle brought himself back from his memories of the previous night's conversation. Andrew was still perusing the things in the pantry, looking for something apparently.

"_Andrew_!"

"Morning, Dad," the young man said, turning and grinning.

"Andrew, you could try to be a _bit_ quieter."

"_Sorry!_ Couldn't sleep, and I'm used to being up at the crack of dawn. I don't suppose you have any bacon do you?"

"Bacon? No…um, there are some eggs there." Foyle pointed and leaned against the door frame. He felt Andrew's eyes on him suddenly and knew that his son had noticed his bare chest underneath the robe. Foyle felt momentarily shy. It was unreasonable of course, but it felt strange for Andrew to acknowledge the fact that he shared a bed with Sam with one glance. He pulled the robe around him a bit more tightly.

"Right. We'll join you, seeing as we're all awake now."

"Sam all right?"

Foyle paused in the doorway, "Bit worn out after yesterday. Have asked her to stay home for now — no more driving. Er, look…"

Andrew stopped scrabbling in the pantry and looked over at his father. "What is it, Dad?"

"I want you to stay with her, keep an eye on her today. She overtired herself yesterday and with the baby not far off, I would just, er…feel better if you were here. You know, to help out a bit…"

"Of course." Andrew smiled at him.

"Thanks." Foyle chewed his cheek and began to edge out of the kitchen.

Andrew called to him, "Glad to be home, Dad."

Foyle nodded, saying softly, "Nice to have you home, son."

They smiled at each other and as he turned to go, Foyle added dryly, "Even if you do make such a bloody racket."

He went back upstairs and closed the door to their room. Sam was still curled as he had left her. Coming around the side of the bed he said, "He's making breakfast. We'd better get up."

"Five minutes," she whispered sleepily, lifting the eiderdown for him to slide under.

Sighing contentedly, he tossed his robe over the bedstead and slipped in next to her.

"Incredible he's up at all after the amount of drink he put away last night," Foyle mused.

"I rather think he's used to it, I'm afraid to say," Sam said. She lifted her head so he could put his arm underneath. Nestling against him as best she could with her protruding belly, Sam put a hand on his chest, fingering the bristly hair there, now shaded in grey.

Foyle gave a sudden grunt, and shifted away. "She's kicking me again."

Sam giggled, "Impatient, I expect."

"Hmm." He resettled himself next to her, keeping his ribs safely out of harm's way.

"How is it that you are so sure?"

Foyle smiled softly, "I just feel I know…somehow…Perhaps the _way_ we…" Pausing, he lifted himself to look at her, "with you, Sam, it is never just motions. It is almost spiritual and I felt something deeply the day we conceived this baby."

He put a hand on her middle, stroking gently. Laughing as he felt another strong kick beneath his palm, he leaned in to kiss her.

"I don't mind if I'm proved wrong, I should add," he murmured.

"Jolly good; lets me off the hook…" She wiped away a soft tear that had slipped past her eyelid. He kissed her cheek where the tear had been, his gentleness overwhelming her.

Smells of cooking wafted up the stairs and Sam nudged him, "We had better get washed and dressed."

Foyle's lips were tracing her cheek bones, finding their way back to hers. His tongue touched the edge of her bottom lip and he felt her intake of breath.

"Five minutes?"

* * *

Breakfast was a rather strange affair. It was the first time they had all sat around a table together, and Andrew kept finding the need to make conversation.

The telephone rang at 7.30, just as Sam was pouring Foyle a second cup of tea. It was Brookie on the line, saying there had been a murder, and could he come directly?

"Poor Dad," Andrew said with a chuckle, "it could only happen to you."

"What do you mean?" Foyle asked, dragging on his waistcoat and tightening his tie.

"Well, the whole country is preparing for a massive knees up and here you are, stuck with the body in the library."

Foyle snatched a piece of toast and took a bite, mumbling as he went past, "It was in the museum."

Sam giggled and went to see him off. "Be safe; we'll see you later."

Foyle dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a few pound notes. "If you get too bored, go and have tea," he turned and added, "somewhere close by, mind."

She kissed him and went back through to Andrew at the dining table. His appetite had returned she was relieved to see, and some colour had come into his cheeks. She hoped the hollow look about his face would disappear with time. Though he would likely never tell her the things he had been through, she understood that it had changed him irrevocably. There was a listlessness about him this morning and she couldn't blame him. She felt tired too.

"What would you like to do today?"

Andrew shrugged.

"Read or put the wireless on, or sit in the garden, or…"

He smiled at her, "You needn't entertain me, Sam."

"I'm not. We might turn out your wardrobe and see what still fits; tidy things a bit."

Andrew pulled a face. "That's no fun."

Sam laughed, "What do you suggest then?"

Andrew shrugged again.

They sat companionably in silence for a bit, finishing their breakfasts. When Andrew yawned, Sam asked, "Did you sleep well? Was it strange being back in your old bed?"

Andrew shrugged. "It was fine."

"Oh Andrew, do stop shrugging like that, you look like a bird. What's up?"

He shot her a sheepish grin, "It is just odd being here with you like this. I mean…"

She raised an eyebrow in a good impression of Foyle.

Andrew gave her a quick look before turning his attention to his teacup. "Well…" he began, "for years and years I wished there was a woman at home…a mother, or…someone else to knock about the house with…We had a housekeeper until I was about fifteen that looked after things and made sure I ate my dinner. Dad was working a lot, you see…but now you're here and…Dad is so happy…and it's like my wish has come true…"

To Sam's alarm Andrew's eyes had suddenly filled. She looked at him softly, tilting her head to one side. "Oh Andrew…"

He held up a hand, using the other to rub his eyes furiously. "Sorry, sorry, just being back here and not sleeping …"

"Bad dreams still?"

"Yes, they seem to come and go. Slept a bit, but find it hard to settle back down once I've had the dream and woken up."

Sam nodded, remembering the time Andrew had gone absent without leave and the nightmares that had plagued him then. She looked at him with some concern. "Has it been going on since…you know…when you stayed with me?"

Andrew nearly shrugged again, but he stopped himself. "It comes and goes, like I say. Feel I could sleep for a hundred years sometimes; other times my mind won't stop."

Sam wasn't quite sure what to say. "Perhaps being away from it all and back here will help," she suggested, "it will probably take time though…"

"I'll be all right, Sam. Don't worry."

"Well, when the baby's born _you_ can stay up and _I_ can get some sleep."

He smiled and played absently with his teacup.

She had guessed that he wasn't quite himself yet, and now her thoughts were confirmed. He had a long road ahead of him, and Sam felt suddenly very protective of him. She began tidying the table.

"I'll help clear up."

"This is a first," Sam teased, taking their plates.

"Dad said I'm meant to be helpful, so…"

"Oh I see, following orders."

"Don't we all?"

"Certainly not, thank you very much," she gave him a push with her shoulder and he grinned.

They stood doing the washing up together, Sam scrubbing and Andrew drying and putting things away.

"You're much quicker at this than your father," she mused.

"Years of practise."

"Though to be fair, I'm not a tidy cook — tend to make more mess than necessary…"

Andrew was at her elbow again, waiting for the next dish. She felt his eyes on her and looked up.

"It will be a full house soon," he said softly with a half smile.

Sam nodded, letting her hands trail in the warm water. "You'll probably feel more an uncle than an older brother, what with the age difference…"

Suddenly she smiled broadly, "Andrew would you be godfather?"

His half smile became a full grin. "Really?"

"Christopher and I haven't discussed godparents yet, but it isn't as if I've got any brothers to ask. I know he'd love for you to be part of the child's life. Oh do say yes, Andrew."

"Yes! I should be delighted."

Sam moved to hug him, hands rising so fast from the water that it slopped all down her front and across the floor. They laughed and Andrew embraced her tenderly.

"I hope it's a boy so I can teach him all sorts of wicked things!"

She gave his arm a light punch, "_Imp_. You would too."


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Thank you ever so much to those who have written such kind reviews and been so encouraging. I appreciate the time you have taken to stick with this story. It has been a pleasure writing this, and I can only hope that you've all enjoyed it as much as I have.

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Chapter 28

**May 1945**

Having Andrew at home had put a new spring in his step, and Foyle tackled this latest case with a tenacious enthusiasm. He wanted it to be over so he could be at home with his wife and son, keeping them close. In the few days since Andrew had been home, he already felt the years apart melting away. It was an amusing thought: Foyle the family man. It had been a long time since he'd had the feeling of wanting to race home at the end of the day. It was especially strange not having Sam be the one to drive them there.

Foyle was very much looking forward to retiring — now the war was nearly over, the force surely couldn't hold him any longer. He'd stayed like he said he would, now it was time to continue down a different path. Policing was over for him, he hoped. Everything was changing in any case: the station was moving to a new building, Milner was waiting to hear about his promotion to Detective Inspector and transfer to Brighton, and Brookie would be headed back to London as soon as he could. In fact, the old station was in a current state of upheaval, Brookie coordinating the move with impressive precision. He'd done well for himself, Foyle mused, and he was glad to have known the cheeky sergeant. Milner had done well too — found himself a wife into the bargain. Foyle suddenly felt old: the young men around him making new starts in life after this god awful war, and here he was retiring…

But thoughts of days full of Sam, Andrew and the new addition made him smile. He too was going on to better things…a sort of new start as well, perhaps. Now this case was nearly over, he could focus on tidying up any last strings and becoming a new father all over again. His heart swelled at the picture in his mind's eye of Sam holding their new child. Any day now….

Foyle walked back into the old station to find only Milner and one or two constables busy packing the last few boxes.

"Hallo, sir," Milner said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Your papers came in then?"

"Yes, sir, about an hour ago. I've got it — I'll be Detective Inspector over in Brighton."

Foyle shook the younger man's hand warmly. "Jolly good. You deserve it."

"I can't thank you enough, sir, for everything over the last few years."

"Don't mention it." Foyle gave him a smile.

Brookie came in just then, rounding up the constables sharply, " 'urry up, you lot, these are the last boxes and we've been waiting ages."

He looked up and saw the two detectives in the corridor, "Ah, Mr Foyle, Mr Milner. I've got something for you."

"Oh yes, what's that?" Foyle asked.

He pulled a green bottle from the box he was holding. "This 'ere is for you and Mrs Foyle. Something for when the baby arrives."

Foyle smiled, "I see. Where's this come from then?"

"Evidence room, sir. Couldn't seem to place the labels — gone adrift somewhere."

Foyle and Milner exchanged an amused look.

"And another for you, Mr Milner. Detective Inspector at last, very well done, sir."

"Thanks, Brookie."

"And, 'ave you 'eard? They're all set to declare the end of the war — there's to be an announcement from the Prime Minister tomorrow afternoon. They're calling it VE Day," Brookie added, arching his eyebrows, "Victory in Europe."

"About time too," Foyle said.

He nodded at Milner and continued down the corridor to his own office. It had also been packed away, all the files gone to the new building on the East Road. His personal affects, like Rosalind's watercolour and his clock had already been taken home. This was it. He could finally enjoy retirement with Sam…and the new addition that would very soon be on its way. They would be a family again, now Andrew was home. Foyle smiled at the thought of his little family waiting for him.

He was startled from his reverie when the telephone shrilled. Foyle sighed slightly, and picked up the receiver. He wasn't prepared for the voice on the other end and he put out a hand to steady himself against the desk. In less than a minute he was saying, "I'm on my way."

He strode quickly out into the corridor calling for Milner.

"I need a car, Milner, where are those lads?"

"They've gone to take the last few boxes, sir…what's the matter?"

Foyle bit his lip, "Anyone else here? Where's Brookie gone?"

"He's gone with them. Just us I'm afraid, sir." Milner frowned in concern. "Sir?"

Foyle raced past and went behind the desk that had seen so many of Hasting's troubles during the war years. He wrenched open a cupboard and found the key he was looking for. Without a backward glance he made for the station yard, leaving Milner standing open mouthed.

He drove quickly to Steep Lane, putting the gears mercilessly through their paces. With a small bump onto the pavement and a slight screech of the brakes, he was in front of his house. Leaping out of the car, he ran up the steps, opened the door and went through without bothering to close it.

"Sam!" he called out, tearing off his hat.

The house was deathly still and he felt himself go cold. "Sam!" he called again more loudly, his voice cracking.

"Up here, Dad."

He raced up the steps two at a time. In their bedroom at the end of the corridor he found Sam glaring at Andrew saying, "Not like _that_."

"Sam. You all right?" He came towards her quickly.

"Of course I'm all right," she snapped, rubbing her back.

"You sure?"

"I'm having a baby, Christopher, it's not the end of the world. Don't _you_ start." She glared at Andrew again who was looking both bewildered and sheepish.

He gave her a small kiss on the cheek, "Jolly good. So, er, what's going on?"

"I'm _trying_ to change the sheets. And Andrew is being completely _hopeless_."

"Is he now?" Foyle patted her arm, "Shall I help?"

He came around the side of the bed, murmuring to Andrew, "Don't look so shocked, my boy."

Andrew gave him a smile and leant a hand. The bed was soon fresh and Sam had stopped glaring. She paced a bit back and forth, before giving a soft groan.

"Are you all right?"

"If you ask me that one more time, Andrew…"

"Well shouldn't you be lying down or something…"

"_Andrew_."

Foyle motioned with his head and Andrew said, "Right…I'll go put the kettle on." He looked glad to escape.

Contemplating her a moment, Foyle said, "You look gorgeous, do you know that?"

Sam looked up, eyeing him suspiciously, "Well, I feel like a balloon ready to burst."

Foyle put an arm around her, "You'll be splendid, my darling."

She relaxed at his touch and leaned into him. "Poor Andrew…I didn't mean to be so cross with him."

"He'll get over it."

Foyle kissed her cheek. "He gave me a fright on the telephone."

She rolled her eyes, "He's truly impossible; he got in a right flap… I don't know how he was a pilot."

"Ah yes, but that's different." Foyle smiled at her, "When a woman is concerned, well…"

Sam huffed. "You men. I'm fine." She was frowning again, and Foyle saw the worried anticipation in her eyes.

"Of course you are. You'll be terrific, Sam, really."

A firm voice came up from the hall. "That'll be the midwife,' Foyle said, rubbing Sam's shoulder encouragingly.

A rather tiny, older lady came pounding up the stairs, Andrew following behind carrying a large bag for her.

"Righto, put the case there. Hallo, my dear, ready to get on with it? Good, good."

She noticed Foyle and eyed him shrewdly, "That your car out front? Jolly bad parking job, I could hardly get my bicycle past. And your front door was wide open for all and sundry to come traipsing through. In a rush were you?"

Sam and Andrew stared at Foyle, both saying at the same time, "_You_ drove?"

The midwife, having rummaged through her case, looked up and said, "Righto, men. OUT. Now. There's work to be done. This might take a while."

"I'd liked to stay," said Foyle, eyes not leaving Sam's face.

"Certainly not. You'll only be in the way. Go and make yourself useful and park that bally car properly so the rest of the street can get past. And make some tea while you're about it."

Foyle kissed Sam, whispering, "I'm only downstairs if you need me. I love you and you'll be magnificent, my darling."  
Her eyes became moist and she kissed him back firmly, lip trembling slightly.

"Yes, yes, all right. Now out with you." The midwife chivvied him out and he smiled at Sam before the door was shut in his face.

Foyle descended the stairs slowly with Andrew, a half smile playing about his lips.

"Did you really drive, Dad?"

"Well, your telephone call wasn't exactly _calming_, Andrew. There was no one else about, so, yes, I drove."

Andrew whistled, "I wouldn't like to be you when Sam tackles you about it."

"I'll be ready. Best see to our tasks, eh? I rather think she's got eyes in the back of her head." He motioned back up the stairs.

When Foyle returned from parking the police car, Andrew had two cups of steaming tea waiting. Foyle quickly rang the station to let Milner know what was happening before joining his son in the lounge. They sat quietly, not saying anything for a moment.

"She said had been tired all morning and just wanted a lie down," Andrew began, stirring his tea. "Next thing I know she's yelling my name and I find her lying in bed in a right mess…" He grimaced. "So I rang the midwife first, like she said, then you."

Andrew took a sip of tea and added, "I think I was frightened to know it was all beginning. Isn't it a bit early? I didn't know what to do."

"I find at times like this it's best to take orders," said Foyle twitching his lips.

"She started groaning and leaning on chairs. I don't know how you're so calm, Dad."

"Been through it once before, haven't I? When you came along." He paused, "It may a bit early, but I don't think we need to worry."

Foyle knew he was only saying it to calm them both, but he felt on edge and just as concerned as Andrew looked. He wasn't about to show it though.

"Game of chess? We'll be here ages I should think."

"So, you can drive?" Andrew asked after a few minutes.

"Yes."

Andrew raised an eyebrow.

"So…"

"So, I wanted a driver. I got Sam. Never looked back. End of story."

Andrew rolled his eyes, "I see."

"It's your move," Foyle said, case very much closed.

Three hours later, the two men were growing restless, each feeding off the other's agitation. Trying to ignore the sounds from upstairs, Foyle had chewed both lips into oblivion, and was pacing the lounge with a hand in his pocket, the other cradling a whiskey.

Andrew was sprawled in an armchair, turning a chess piece over and over in his hands.

"Dad?"

Foyle looked up, "Hmm?"

"I'm really chuffed for you both."

He smiled at his son.

"She's a wonderful woman."

"She is."

They were silent for a bit, Foyle continuing his slow pacing, and Andrew his contemplation of the chess pieces.  
Suddenly a strong, infantile cry ripped through the air. It was both clamouring and indignant. Foyle stopped pacing and looked over at Andrew. They both grinned.

_Fin_


End file.
